Teacher, Teacher
by Moaning Myrtle in the Loo
Summary: Severus finds himself learning from Hermione, thanks to Dumbledore. A WIKTT challenge response.
1. 1 Sugar Decays More Than Enamel

Author's Note:  
  
The standard, boring and morally pacifying disclaimers apply. None of this is mine, not even the idea. The specific order of the words is somehow loosely tied to me, though, and I am fond of certain specific turns of phrase.  
  
Special thanks go to Barrie (FriendlyQuark) who sets the writing bar unreachably high. Thanks for being an inspiration, a beta and a friend who gives me gifts like Sheep Harold.  
  
This is in response to WIKTT's Teacher challenge.  
  
The challenge:  
  
Professor Severus Snape is used to being the boss - giving orders, making demands, being right. And now, Dumbledore is about to bring Snape's worst nightmare to life. Required to learn some Muggle skill by the Headmaster, for either personal or professional reasons, Snape is going to be submitting to lessons from none other than the Gryffindor Know-It-All herself.  
  
Payback is a bitch.  
  
In honour of the 29th of February (known to some as Sadie Hawkins Day), the day when women can traditionally propose (and the men can't decline!). Now, it's time to turn the tables, and put the pants on one Miss Hermione Granger.  
  
The requirements:  
  
1. Snape is required to learn a Muggle skill. This can be anything from how to drive a car, how to take the Tube, general Muggle relations (perhaps Snape has been made the Muggle student faculty contact?), how to use a computer, the possibilities are almost endless.  
  
2. Dumbledore must be the impetus behind the lessons. We all know that meddling and mischief equals the Headmaster!  
  
3. Hermione plays teacher. Her teaching style (Snape-ish, or more forgiving) and the format of the lessons are up to you.  
  
4. Hermione's age is optional, though she should be of majority if you're going to have any naughty smutty goings-on.  
  
5. Have fun - imagine the chance to have the most fearsome teacher from your schooling at your mercy, completely unknowledgeable about the subject, and having to take direction from someone they've traditionally looked down on.  
  
So here we go with our story, "Teacher, Teacher"  
  
Chapter 1 - Sugar Decays More Than Enamel  
  
Damn, damn, damn.  
  
It had become his mantra over the past four weeks. All right, to be honest, it had been his mantra ever since he agreed to play nursemaid to the apparently never-ending stream of dunderheads that showed up at Hogwarts' School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  
  
Why, in the name of all that was sacred and sentient, weren't there laws against this? He'd never bought into the eugenic rhetoric of Voldemort, but surely there were candidates for forced sterilization. James Potter was, of course, the first case to jump to his mind.  
  
Severus Snape was shocked to realize that he actually felt a twinge of guilt for that thought. Potter's only son, Harry, had been the saving grace of the wizarding world not once but twice. Unfortunately, the second time had been fatal for both Voldemort and the young Potter. In the very deepest recesses of his heart (and yes, such an organ did indeed exist, contrary to popular opinion), the wizarding world's pre-eminent Potions Master had grieved the loss of the boy who had been his life debt, his curse, and ultimately, his savior.  
  
The first time the boy had defeated Tom Riddle, it had been his mother's love (and her knowledge of certain Dark Arts) that had saved the wizarding world; the second time had been Harry - just Harry. The boy had sacrificed himself by inflicting the Avada Kedavra curse upon himself as he wrapped his young body around the Dark Lord. The blood they shared, combined with the physical contact, were apparently all that was needed for the curse to destroy them both; simple, brute magical force. In the end, none of Albus' mysterious insightfulness found a loophole, none of Miss Granger's dizzying intellect solved the puzzle, none of Snape's potions stoppered his death.  
  
'Gah!' thought Snape, 'when did I become so maudlin?' The past was past, the boy had fulfilled his prophesied destiny, and the wizarding world was at long last settling into a cautious, relaxed peace. Surely, there were more pressing concerns for the living? While it may not be "pressing," there was one concern foremost in the Potions Master's mind.  
  
One Albus Dumbledore, meddler extraordinaire, who had informed him a month ago - twinkling madly away - that, due to some faction of insane Death Eaters (Snape paused, wondering if the phrase "insane Death Eater" was redundant), Snape's life was still in danger and he thus needed to "go to ground," as the daft old fool said. Apparently, the Headmaster had been able to procure an alarming number of Muggle theatrical works in some format and had become enamored of the confusing jargon used therein.  
  
None of that was particularly odd - Albus had "twinkled" for as long as Snape had known him, even before he became Headmaster. Frankly, Severus was convinced that said twinkling was a direct result of the candy the old man ingested. No one could possibly consume that much sugar and remain rational.  
  
The infatuation with Muggle items wasn't normal either. The only other wizard Snape had ever encountered with a passion for Muggle technology comparable to Albus' had been Arthur Weasley, and let's face it, Arthur had every reason to be unbalanced. Married to the über-housewitch Molly, father to the psychotically ambitious likes of Percy, the disruptively rambunctious Fred and George, and the crowning glory of ignorance, Ron - any one of those offspring on their own could send a lucid man 'round the bend. It was unfortunate that Ginny had come along too late to save her father's sanity. Of course, she'd had her own issues with normality after that little visit to Tom Riddle's Chamber of Horrors.  
  
Snape shook himself, trying to focus on the words being spoken by his only allegedly (and apparently, mistakenly) trusted friend, the completely barmy Headmaster.  
  
". so you'll have to go undercover, Severus." The object of the sentence sighed audibly; more Muggle-speak.  
  
"Sorry, Albus - 'undercover?' Could you define that for those of us who haven't seen the latest James Pond . thing?" Snape growled.  
  
"The 'thing' is a DVD, Severus, and it's Bond. James Bond."  
  
Honestly, Snape thought, the man should be committed. Dumbledore was virtually rigid with excitement over being able to say that phrase. And yes, he did mean that kind of 'rigid.' The visual accompanying that statement caused a shudder to pass through Hogwarts' resident greasy git.  
  
"I mean, Severus, that you need to leave Hogwarts and hide. You need to become invisible to those rogue Death Eaters. You need to learn to become a Muggle someplace where you won't be found. At least until the Aurors can round the most dangerous of them up so that they'll be no threat to you." Dumbledore was, for lack of a better phrase, in a tizzy.  
  
Snape tiredly ran his hands over his face; "Exactly what did you have in mind, Albus?" Snape prayed it wouldn't be as badly conceived an idea as when the Headmaster forced him to conduct Occlumency lessons with Harry Bloody Potter. Relying on Aurors to solve anything other than "Button, Button, Who's Got the Button" was a risk Severus was unwilling to take. He prayed that his future was not going to be consigned to such an ignominious fate.  
  
No, it was worse.  
  
"I've already arranged."  
  
Oh, God. That was never a good start, Snape thought.  
  
".for you and your instructor to inhabit appropriate housing."  
  
It was all the Potions Master could do to keep from throttling the old man behind the overly polished walnut desk. Severus Snape was painfully aware of the fact that the more obtuse Albus Dumbledore became in describing a situation, the more distasteful it would be to its participants. Given the description so far, Snape could only assume that he'd be bearing Voldemort's children - or something equally repulsive.  
  
As it turns out, the reality was worse than he'd feared. 


	2. 2 Really? No, Not Really

Chapter 2 - Really? No, Not Really.*  
  
Sighing deeply, Severus Snape grabbed the portkey on Albus Dumbledore's desk. He hoped with every fiber of his being that the last image the Headmaster would have of his Potions Master would be that of weary resignation and bone-numbing fatigue, since that's what the man actually felt. Once he realized where he was, Snape wished he'd hexed Dumbledore on his way out.  
  
He was at her house.  
  
Anyone who had ever talked to her would know that this was her house.  
  
She had always made sure that everyone knew where she came from - her Muggle address, her Muggle parents, and their Muggle career. He could remember the address, her parents' names, even that they'd had something to do with teeth. Although it had been two years since he'd last heard it, he was certain that the information had been permanently burned into every neurotransmitter in his brain. So here he was, standing at the front door of the small but tidy house that accommodated everything important to her: her history, her childhood, her future.  
  
They - Mr. and Mrs. Granger - were, of course, long gone. They'd been among the first casualties of Voldemort's final campaign. Their deaths had been one of the few badly miscalculated moves that Tom Riddle had made.  
  
Believing that all his Death Eaters would forever be loyal had been the would-be dictator's first mistake. Snape took great pride in being the proof of that miscalculation. Killing Hermione's parents had been Voldemort's second and final error.  
  
Lord Voldemort (Snape had trouble with that honorific; when all was said and done, the man had at one time been called Little Tommy Riddle) made his most critical mistake when he'd presumed that killing a Mudblood's family as an example would provide some kind of rallying point for his planned purification of the magical community of the tainted blood of the non- magical.  
  
The Mudblood he had chosen to target - Hermione Granger - had garnered more respect in her few years as a student at Hogwarts than Tom Riddle as the Dark Lord could ever hope to buy or coerce. By killing Granger's parents, Voldemort did more to galvanize the resistance against him than all the work Dumbledore's Army could have done in decades. In the end, Voldemort's inability to see the value in simple kindness had spelled his own doom.  
  
Hermione Granger had tutored, befriended, or at least listened sympathetically to nearly every Slytherin that had passed through Hogwarts' Great Hall. Those few moments of compassion and impartiality completely eroded Voldemort's base of power; not a single Slytherin family had been unaffected by that one Gryffindor's kindheartedness. If he'd been the Grinch, Tom Riddle couldn't have been more completely undone than he was by this one Cindy Loo Who.  
  
Still, that same Gryffindor had been a particular pain in the Potions Master's posterior. Her hand seemed to be permanently elevated; her expression, constantly hopeful; her outlook, eternally optimistic. It would be impossible to design a more annoying presence in Severus Snape's life. The fact that she and her family played a crucial role in the demise of Tom Riddle merely added a bitter, ironic aftertaste to the pill she had been.  
  
And yet, here he was, at her house. Surely, God was convulsed in paroxysms of sadistic laughter. Snape could only roll his eyes at the perfect justice that was being doled out and curse the meddling mischief-maker that was Albus Dumbledore.  
  
Knowing enough about Muggle life to touch the illuminated button outside the door, Snape pressed firmly and steeled himself to be greeted by Hogwarts' resident do-gooder. That was not the woman who opened the door.  
  
For a long moment, Severus Snape stared speechlessly at the unfamiliar woman standing before him. Where he had expected a bushy-haired, naïve girl, he was greeted by a siren. Granted, her hair was still unspeakably wild and her eyes were preternaturally wise, but nothing else about this woman resembled the Gryffindor know-it-all.  
  
She wore a form-fitting t-shirt and jeans that, while loose, seemed to accentuate every feminine curve of her body. Her feet were bare and Snape was mildly surprised to notice that her toenails were painted blue and that there was a silver ring around the second toe of her left foot.  
  
If Hermione was surprised at the presence of her former Potions professor, nothing in her expression showed it. She looked at him steadily, waiting for him to level her with some cutting comment.  
  
It would seem that the evening was full of surprises for both of them; he had no sarcastic greeting for her.  
  
"Miss Granger?" Snape finally said, in a voice that broke noticeably over her name.  
  
She silently opened the door further and stepped back, giving him ample room to enter.  
  
He entered and looked around the vestibule. To his left, a small door most likely concealed a closet. A staircase further down the left hand wall was partially visible from his vantage point. Bright lights and a tile floor through an entry directly across from where he stood revealed a portion of the kitchen and, completing his quick clockwise examination of the entrance hall, a wide arched entryway led into the living room.  
  
The foyer itself was small but well lit, an Arts and Crafts bench within easy reach of the door. With its clean, simple lines, exposed oak joints, and high slatted sides, Snape recognized the Mackintosh design. Even without inspecting it closely, he had no doubt that, if it wasn't an original piece, it was a stunning reproduction. A copper-framed rectangular mirror with Celtic knot work wrought into the corners hung on the wall above it.  
  
Stepping through into the living room, he immediately noticed the understated oak and walnut furnishings. Most of the pieces, like the bench in the foyer, were from the British Arts and Crafts movement. Not as severe or bold as their gothic inspiration; ornate but carefully handcrafted - a style that appealed to the Potions Master. He was pleasantly surprised. Given the over-achieving nature of Miss Granger, he'd expected a décor equally over the top; something fussy and complicated, not the simple elegance of William Morris or Liberty & Co.  
  
There wasn't an overabundance of furniture in the parlor but what was there was obviously well-made and maintained. A massive bookcase with glass- fronted shelves atop a wide cabinet-lined base dominated one wall. Its copper hinges and handles had aged to a soft patina and the shelves were filled to overflowing with a combination of books, photographs, and innumerable small artifacts that achieved what design advertisements always strived for but never really achieved: a welcoming, homey atmosphere.  
  
Hermione had been watching Snape, observing him as he took in the surroundings. She'd braced herself for some withering glance or critical comment about the furnishings. His lack of snide commentary had thrown her. After allowing him a few moments to acclimate to the surroundings - her home, she reminded herself - she offered to take his bag.  
  
"No, thank you," he said off-handedly. His tone was almost civil. This was definitely not what Hermione had been expecting. She was, for one of the few times in her life, at a loss for words.  
  
Several minutes passed while the pair tried to readjust their perception. Hermione concentrated on anticipating the next move or comment of her visitor, while Snape tried to reconcile what he was seeing with what he'd expected. Neither of them was particularly successful.  
  
Her frustration finally got the better of her and Hermione sighed in exasperation.  
  
"Well, at least let me show you to your room," she said. She'd tried to infuse her tone with a heavy dose of aggravation but it came out sounding rather apologetic.  
  
Snape followed her silently, noting the well-tended house as they walked out of the living room, past the kitchen, to the stairway.  
  
At the upstairs landing, Hermione pointed to her left. "That will be your room. The bath is the second door on the right. This," she tilted her head briefly at the door to the right of the stairs, "is my room."  
  
At his raised eyebrow, she elaborated. "My parents' room is at the end of the hall. I . I've left it as it was." She shrugged and, for a moment, a hint of the young girl he'd remembered appeared. "It's probably silly but I just wasn't comfortable taking their room." Her voice was nearly a whisper.  
  
"Understandable," he said softly. Something about her suddenly vulnerable demeanor leached the sarcasm from his voice, leaving only a soft baritone rumble that was uncomfortably gentle - though it was hard to tell which of them felt more awkward.  
  
"Well," Hermione said, steeling herself, "I'll leave you to get settled. Supper will be in -"she checked her watch. "25 minutes." She turned and quickly descended the stairs.  
  
That was the Hermione Granger he'd expected, Snape thought to himself. Completely punctual, completely predictable and completely in denial that life might not follow her detailed expectations.  
  
* sorry, it's a throw-away line, referring to an American ad campaign in 2000 for Tostitos corn chips, featuring Chris Elliott (American comedian/actor of Dave Letterman fame and son of Bob Elliott of Bob and Ray fame, for you radio and classic comedy aficionados).  
  
Here's a link: .  
  
Frankly, if you have to look it up, it won't be funny unless, of course, you were able to use this line to reject an unwanted sexual advance. I know, TMI. 


	3. 3 Now Serving

Chapter 3 - Now Serving.  
  
A/N - Forgive me, I wrote this before supper.  
  
Thirty-eight minutes later, Severus came downstairs. He'd made sure to be exactly 13 minutes late, knowing that it would drive Hermione absolutely insane. Smirk comfortably in place, he turned into the kitchen and arched an eyebrow at his former nemesis.  
  
Hermione didn't even bother to look up from her book.  
  
Well.  
  
He cleared his throat, waiting for the inevitable babbled apology and her hasty retrieval of his supper.  
  
Hermione didn't move.  
  
"Miss Granger?" He infused his words with all the sarcasm he could muster. Given his expertise, every phoneme dripped with derision.  
  
"Get it yourself," she said calmly.  
  
Excuse me? He thought. Who is this woman and what has she done with the real Miss Granger?  
  
"Excuse me?" he said. He wisely chose to keep the second half of his prior thought to himself.  
  
"I finished my meal -" she glanced at the clock on the wall, "six minutes ago. If you'd wanted to eat with me, you should have been here then. You can get your own supper." Her nose then buried itself back in the pages of Bram Stoker's Dracula.  
  
He stood there a moment, not sure whether to continue what would probably be a pointless round of verbal badminton or just ignore the silly girl -- even if she was no longer a girl.  
  
The recent revelation of her surprisingly voluptuous development made him feel temporarily disoriented and he intensely disliked that feeling. Her churlish manner with him now was nothing like the overly eager student he'd known and that was equally unsettling. With a brilliant and oh-so- typically male deduction, he decided that his discomfiture was her fault and her appalling lack of manners must be due to it being her time of the month.  
  
Conveniently ignoring the small and decidedly unwelcome voice that quietly reminded him of his rudeness in being intentionally tardy to supper, he pulled his wand from his sleeve.  
  
Hermione roused herself - barely - from reading and said, "You can't use that here."  
  
Her tone was bored and he had half a mind to chide her for being such a poor hostess. In fact, her entire demeanor so far, except for the brief moment of tenderness she'd shown in discussing her parents' bedroom, had bordered on sullen.  
  
Snape ignored her and, giving a swish and flick, directed his wand to the counter where he planned to conjure a lovely roast duck in cranberry glaze.  
  
Nothing.  
  
No spark, no flash and -- more alarming -- no duck. Not even a feather.  
  
Hermione sighed audibly and turned a page.  
  
Grinding his teeth, the tall and now quite hungry man turned back to the table and managed to choke out, "Perhaps, Miss Granger, you would be kind enough as to enlighten me regarding the sudden failure of my wand?"  
  
Choosing to ignore the opportunity to make a tasteless double entendre from his poor choice of phrasing, Hermione shrugged and said, "Professor Dumbledore warded the house against magic. He said something about charms that could detect even the smallest trace of magical activity and that Death Eaters would be using those to find you. So your wand won't work. No magical potions, no house elves, no floo, no apparating. Nothing."  
  
Wonderful, he thought. The most she's said since he'd arrived and it was Dumbledore-related bad news. That's redundant, he told himself; anything Dumbledore-related must, by definition, be bad news.  
  
Noticing the smirk on Hermione's face, he asked, "And I suppose your abilities have not been similarly constrained?" He was chagrined to realize that his question sounded decidedly whiny.  
  
"Oh no," she said, the very picture of equanimity. "I'm not able to perform any magic either. Of course, I've lived as a Muggle so it's not really that much of an inconvenience for me." Unlike Snape's tone, the tenor of her words was the very definition of snarky.  
  
Before he could launch into a diatribe regarding her behavior thus far, his stomach interrupted, registering its loud complaint at having been ignored.  
  
Hermione's smirk deepened and she had the temerity to close her book and cross her arms. She pushed back from the oak refectory table and reclined slightly in the wide-slatted ladder back chair, rearranging her body into a pose of casual indifference in complete contrast to the obvious interest on her face.  
  
A headache began to take root in the base of Snape's skull, where the muscles had been as rigid as well-cured concrete for the better part of the day.  
  
Absentmindedly rubbing the base of his neck, he looked around the tidy kitchen, trying to decide where best to begin his search for comestibles. The room lay across the back of the house, and included a fairly traditional arrangement of counters, cabinets and appliances. A comfortable eating area was separated from the kitchen by a counter with cabinets above and below.  
  
The placing of the kitchen in the back of the house allowed for a substantial number of windows, providing a view of the neatly landscaped back yard. The wall behind the dining area was nearly all glass, except for a door in the far corner that led out of the house. An oversized window over the kitchen sink was set so that it jutted out from the back wall, allowing a variety of herbs and plants to grow on glass shelves contained in the window, much like a small greenhouse. The effect of all the glass gave the area a feeling of more space than its actual square footage. The natural light from the - Snape glanced at the shadows creeping across the lawn - south facing window also provided a warm light that further cheered the space.  
  
Despite the obvious and incorrect assumption of Miss Granger, Severus Snape did indeed know his way around a kitchen. The comparison of Potions crafting to fine cooking was frequently made and it was an apt association. The best sauciers, patissiers, and chefs de cuisine were as precise, as demanding and frequently just as temperamental as Hogwarts' Potions Master, and a man with a palate and nose as finely-tuned as Snape's was a natural for the kitchen.  
  
Deciding that the first order of business was to determine what ingredients were available and, as his stomach requested noisily, what could be cooked quickly, Snape opened the refrigerator door. He relished the look of surprise that registered on Hermione's face as he pulled the door open and surveyed its contents.  
  
"Surely, Miss Granger, you aren't surprised that I am able to recognize standard kitchen appliances?" he drawled. "Some wizards are quite comfortable functioning in the Muggle world." He didn't add the "so take that, Miss Snarky Britches" that had accompanied the comment in his mind. His childishness surprised even himself sometimes.  
  
Well no wonder the girl's pants were loose, he thought; there was virtually nothing edible in here. A bottle that contained barely more than a mouthful of milk, a jar of mustard, a knob of butter, a shallot (a shallot? Does she even know what to do with a shallot?), some shredded cheese that appeared to be Swiss, and a tomato that was about 8 hours past being usable. Opening the lower bin revealed a lemon that was well on its way to mummification - fortunately for Snape's sensitive nose, it had long since passed the malodorous state of decay - three eggs of indeterminate vintage, and a bottle of champagne. He was relieved to note that at least the champagne was stored correctly, in the least frigid part of the appliance and lying on its side.  
  
"Miss Granger, what could you have possibly eaten tonight? There is virtually nothing edible in here. Surely you didn't concoct some divine repast that left only this .wasteland?"  
  
Finally, it was Hermione's turn to look uneasy. She mumbled something which she was sternly requested to repeat "so that it may be heard and understood."  
  
"I heated a frozen dinner in the microwave," she huffed.  
  
Opening the freezer and removing a package, he said, "So I missed an opportunity to enjoy (here he paused to dramatically clear his throat) 'Tender beef tips, in a creamy white wine - Dijon sauce, served with roasted red-skin potato wedges and crisp green beans?'" Snape turned the box over. His hand was nearly as large as the box. "Oh, and such a generously-sized meal at 240 grams; surely there were leftovers?"  
  
Hermione's subtle blush became slightly more pronounced but she said nothing.  
  
"Pity." From his tone, it would appear that Snape had managed to reclaim his title of Master of Sarcasm.  
  
He put the small box back into the freezer and surveyed the room. Deciding that the most logical place to store mixing bowls would be under the longest expanse of counter, he opened the first cabinet next to the refrigerator. Behind the measuring cups, a sifter and a colander, he found a bowl to suit his purpose. He placed the three eggs inside the bowl and crossed to the sink where he poured cold water over them.  
  
Leaving the bowl on the counter, he turned toward Hermione and asked, "Where do you keep your dry goods?"  
  
She was a little taken aback. "Do you mean flour and spices or potatoes and onions?"  
  
"I'll want to know where all of that is kept but for now, I'd like to find an onion and a few potatoes. If you have any that haven't petrified, that is."  
  
She pointed to a closet next to the door that he'd entered through. "We - I mean, I keep mostly odds and ends in there, but there are some root vegetables that shouldn't be too old."  
  
He crossed to the door and opened it. A few wicker baskets at his feet contained some smallish potatoes and a handful of onions. Relieved to see that none of the potatoes had sprouted, he took what he needed and returned to the counter.  
  
It was only a matter of time before Hermione's curiosity got the better of her. She drifted over to sit on one of the stools that had been tucked under the counter on the table side of the room. She craned her neck to see what he was going to do with the bowl filled with water and eggs.  
  
"Miss Granger," he began, his tone exactly as she'd remembered it from seven years of lecturing. "Do you know how old these eggs are?"  
  
She silently shook her head. That was a reaction neither of them were accustomed to; Snape made a note to mark this day in his memory.  
  
"Do you know how to tell whether an egg is still edible?"  
  
"No, sir." Her tone returned to the respectful interest that had been so familiar to him and so absent so far this evening. That alone forestalled him making a snide comment about her culinary ignorance.  
  
Slipping into the comfortable role of teacher, he lectured: "If an egg is fresh, it will sink when submerged in water, resting on its side. As the egg ages, air passes through the shell and expands an air pocket at the wider end of the egg. After approximately one week, the wide base of the egg will rise in the water, causing the egg to float vertically. The egg will still be edible." Snape slid the bowl closer to her. The fat end of the egg was breaking the surface of the water as the rest of the egg remained submerged. Professor Snape continued: "As the air continues to permeate the shell, the material contained within will continue to evaporate. At approximately two weeks of age, the narrower end of the egg will float. After three weeks, the egg will float on the water and is, at that time, no longer fit for consumption."  
  
While he'd been speaking, Snape had located a fork, cutting board, knife, two pans, and had snipped sprigs of parsley, chervil, chives and tarragon from the window garden.  
  
After removing the eggs from the water, he quickly washed the potatoes in the water and then rinsed the bowl. Putting the larger of the pans on the stove, he set the flame first to high, and then backed it down slightly. As the pan heated, he diced the potatoes and onions into precisely and evenly sized cubes, his movements as deft and sure here as in the Potions lab. A pat of butter hit the hot pan with a loud sizzle and was quickly followed by the onions and potatoes. He gave the pan a few quick shakes, mixing the ingredients to his satisfaction, then added a few pinches of salt and cracked some pepper over the combination. Setting a lid on top of the pan, he turned to the eggs.  
  
Three eggs were quickly cracked, seasoned with salt, pepper and the herbs, and the last of the milk (after a careful sniff determined that it hadn't yet turned) were expertly whipped together into a froth. Another pan on the stove, another pat of butter hissed its way into a liquid state, and the egg mixture was poured into the pan.  
  
As the eggs began to set, Snape checked the potatoes to see that they were nearly done by piercing a cubed potato with the knife and lifting it from the pan. As the potato released its grip on the knife, he nodded to himself. Turning back to the eggs, he lifted the pan, gave it a quick flick with his wrist and the omelet was perfectly flipped.  
  
Snape paused, looked around the kitchen thoughtfully and then opened the cupboard to the left of the sink. Taking one of the plates he'd expected to find there, he tried not to smile. For the oddest reason, he was pleased that the contents of the cabinets and cupboards were organized very much as he'd have done.  
  
He turned the stove off, sprinkled the Swiss cheese and the few remaining chopped fines herbes into the center of the eggs and folded the omelet from the pan onto his plate. He scooped the potatoes and onions from their pan and, plucking a fork from the drawer beneath the plate-filled cupboard, walked to the table, sat down and tucked in.  
  
Note: the floating egg test is frequently used. Here are some links: and both reference the test but the American Egg Board () neither agrees nor refutes this test, saying only that floating an egg in salt water cannot determine freshness. They counsel reliance on the date stamps on the carton or by cracking the egg open and examining it. 


	4. 4 Good Morning, Sunshine

Chapter 4 - Good Morning, Sunshine  
  
Severus Snape awoke to three distinctly uncomfortable facts.  
  
Uncomfortable fact one: he was not in his bed.  
  
Uncomfortable fact two: he was in a Muggle home.  
  
Uncomfortable fact three: he had an erection.  
  
He sighed loudly.  
  
The first uncomfortable fact - waking up somewhere other than his own bed - was far too reminiscent of his years of being a Death Eater, apparating blindly whenever Voldemort called. He hated that momentary disorientation of opening his eyes to a completely unfamiliar scene. The instincts honed over years of deadly espionage kicked in before he could remember that he was not in any danger this morning but was in someone's home, with the end result being an unpleasant and unnecessary surge of adrenaline that jolted his cardiac system. Surely, he was getting too old for this.  
  
The second uncomfortable fact - waking in a Muggle home -- wasn't uncomfortable because the home in question was Muggle; it was the fact that before he could sip his daily life-giving and impossibly strong cup of tea, he would have to wait the extra minutes it took to boil water without magic. This was rendered slightly less critical by the high levels of epinephrine still coursing through him, thanks to uncomfortable fact number one. Perhaps by the time he dressed and got downstairs, his heart would have stopped beating so wildly as to make caffeine an unwise addition to an already overtaxed nervous system.  
  
The third uncomfortable fact was simply going to have to remain uncomfortable. While his body's confirmation that he was a fully- functional red-blooded male was not in and of itself particularly problematic, the rather hard evidence of his healthy physiology was the result of an explicit dream he'd had about a student. Well, a former student anyway, but the fact remained that Severus Snape did not perv after the children he taught, even after they were no longer under his tutelage. So there was no way he was going to take the matter in hand, as it were. While dreams were beyond his control, he simply did not fantasize about children. He thought that last bit somewhat more forcefully than necessary, in an attempt to quell the very vivid memory of the woman who'd opened the door last night and been featured in his dream. That had definitely not been the figure of a child.  
  
Sighing again, he threw the covers aside and rose to begin the day.  
  
Hermione sat at the kitchen table, her tea having gone cold hours ago. She'd been up since 3, trying to calm herself after waking from a nightmare. In her dream, she'd woken on the final day of the school year, only to discover that she had attended the wrong classes all year long. She found herself sitting for exams in subjects she'd never studied. Every test question was completely incomprehensible to her and dealt with issues she'd never even imagined.  
  
It wasn't so much the actual dream that upset her; she'd had it often enough to know what it meant. It was the underlying fear that had driven her most of her life; the fear of not knowing, of failing to have all the right answers. For as long as she could remember - and for as long as she'd had this same dream - she'd been terrified of not excelling. Perhaps it was because she was the only child of two intelligent and driven parents with the highest of expectations. Perhaps she felt somehow that she needed to overcompensate for her rather unremarkable outward appearance. Or perhaps, she sighed, she was mental, as Ron used to say.  
  
She heard the floorboards creak upstairs and suddenly remembered that she had a guest. Well, she snorted to herself, "guest" might have been overstating it; it would have been more accurate to say that she wasn't alone in the house.  
  
Professor Dumbledore had heaped mountains of guilt on her, all but promising if any harm came to the Potions Master it would be entirely Hermione's fault for not taking him in. As such, she hadn't really had much choice in the matter. Of course, being Snape, he had hardly behaved as a guest, being intentionally late for supper.  
  
No sooner had that last thought crossed her mind than she felt a twinge of shame. She hadn't exactly been the ideal hostess herself, having had nothing on hand to eat but frozen dinners and the few ingredients he'd been able to use for his improvised supper. At least she had an excuse for that: the Headmaster hadn't given her but a few hours' warning of Snape's impending visit. Most of that time had been spent helping Dumbledore set up the needed protective and anti-magic wards. The few minutes that had been left before his expected arrival were spent feverishly cleaning the house.  
  
She wondered irritably at her reaction to Snape last night. His imperious attitude in purposely being late for dinner was annoying but that was quintessential Snape: he would never tolerate being dictated to. Her resulting petulant behavior towards a respected teacher wasn't something she was proud of but it wasn't entirely surprising, given his own rudeness.  
  
No, what bothered Hermione most about last night was being surprised. One of the advantages of studying as much as she did was that very little caught her unawares. In over-preparing for every exam, report, debate and dissertation, she was almost invariably able to anticipate questions and challenges. Being surprised was tantamount to being unprepared, and Hermione Granger did not tolerate being unprepared.  
  
First, she had been shocked at Snape's lack of snide commentary about her home and her appearance. Then came his unexpectedly and nearly sensitive reaction to the revelation that she hadn't taken over her parents' room. His prowess in the kitchen (especially compared to her own lack of culinary experience) was the final shock of the evening. No wonder she'd had her "failure dream," as she'd come to call it.  
  
Now she was faced with entertaining this man who had, in one night, upset her emotional apple cart sufficiently to bring back childhood nightmares. How long was it going to take until Snape was no longer at risk from Death Eaters? With no floo, no owls and no Daily Prophet, she was completely in the dark as to what progress, if any, was being made in rounding up the rogue supporters of the now-defeated Dark Lord. More horrifyingly, what on Earth was she going to do with him during the day?  
  
The answer to that question came to her as she opened the refrigerator door - they were definitely going to have to buy some groceries.  
  
She heard the water in the bathroom start and giggled; it had been a long- held belief that the man never showered. Hermione always suspected that Snape's greasy appearance had more to do with the number of hot cauldrons he worked with, combined with a desire to foster an unappealing image and a possible propensity to be naturally oily, as opposed to a failure to attend to personal hygiene. For Heaven's sake, given the amount of time he spent hovering near them in class, the students' noses would have noticed long ago if he neglected to attend to his personal hygiene.  
  
Hermione had defended Snape a number of times on issues such as this, especially when the charges were ridiculous and easily refuted. The myth that Snape was a vampire, for example, was a story she consistently protested, pointing out that the man never missed a Quidditch match (held in the daylight, thank you very much) and was never absent from the Head Table when shrimp scampi in all its garlic-filled glory was served.  
  
Of course, she'd only made the garlic point once to Ron and Harry. After making her observation, they had teased her mercilessly, accusing her of planning to marry the man since she was tracking his favorite foods. No amount of explaining that she had simply been trying to confirm or deny the vampire rumor would shut the boys up. From that day forward, she steadfastly refused to note what the Potions Master ate or drank.  
  
The water stopped running upstairs. Deciding to make at least some amends for last night, Hermione began assembling the tea things so that Snape could at least enjoy a cuppa without having to wait for the water to boil. Panicking for a moment when she realized that she didn't know if he preferred tea or coffee, she shrugged; since there wasn't any coffee in the house, his only options were tea or hot water.  
  
She set the kettle on the stove to boil, grabbed the teapot from the drain board where she'd left it and pulled out the only two tins of tea she had, hoping that at least one of the blends would be acceptable to him. Realizing that he'd used the last of the milk the prior evening, she also hoped he took his tea black.  
  
Hermione turned from the stove to find Severus standing in the doorway to the kitchen, watching her. His hair, still wet from the shower, hung even more limply than usual around his pale face; One tear-shaped droplet of water dangled from a strand of hair, threatening to fall onto his shirt. She was startled to see him there, as she hadn't heard him come down the stairs. She was even more shocked to see him without his frock coat.  
  
In all her years at Hogwarts, Hermione had never seen Professor Snape not dressed in formal outfits. Even during the final battle, he'd been completely shrouded in his Death Eater's robes. The lack of such covering this morning sent her heart pounding, with a profound appreciation for the unexpectedly tantalizing modesty of his traditional Edwardian attire. Now that he was unbuttoned, even if it was only the very top button of his immaculately pressed white linen shirt, there was enough contrast from his standard uniform to give her an intimate understanding of the word "swoon."  
  
For his part, Snape was caught off-guard by the woman at the stove. Her fair complexion seemed to have been drained of the little natural color it usually had and there were dark circles under her eyes. The fact that she hadn't been sleeping well - or much - was painfully apparent.  
  
Given the tenuous peace he hoped they'd achieved by the end of the prior evening, he was loath to say anything that would put her on the defensive. It wasn't that he was suddenly concerned with her feelings; he simply didn't want to start his as yet un-caffeinated day by sniping with a visibly brittle Hermione Granger.  
  
Hermione stepped away from the stove and awkwardly motioned to the teapot and mug. "There's either Earl Grey or Irish Breakfast tea; I can go to the store later and pick up whatever you prefer. I'm sorry, there isn't any coffee."  
  
He interrupted with a dismissive wave of his hand. Resisting the temptation to tell her to stop her incessant babbling at least until he'd had his tea, he said simply, "Tea is fine, thank you."  
  
'Damn,' Hermione thought, 'there's another response I wasn't expecting.'  
  
She risked trespassing on his tolerance with one more comment: "I'll leave you to it then, and I'll go take a shower. If you like, we can go out for breakfast."  
  
Remembering what little he could find to eat last night, he nearly pointed out that the only other choice was starvation, but continuing to hold on to a relatively neutral demeanor, he simply nodded.  
  
Before he could snap at her or surprise her yet again, she turned and went upstairs. She grabbed a pair of jeans, a cotton button-down shirt and clean underthings from her dresser and went into the bathroom. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she did a double-take at her wan reflection and shook her head. 'No wonder he wasn't snarky this morning,' she thought, 'I look like one of Verdi's consumptive sopranos.'  
  
Years of experience as Head of Slytherin had taught him that women were slow to complete bathing and dressing; he guessed that he would have at least an hour before Hermione would be ready to go. Given the rather unusual luxury of completely unscheduled time, he allowed himself to get lost in the ritual of preparing his tea.  
  
There were six chairs set around the oak table in the breakfast area of the kitchen. Out of habit, he chose the seat tucked in the corner nearest the kitchen counter, giving him the best view of the room, the entry hall and the yard. Settling into the chair, he took a sip from the oversized mug that held his steaming tea, brewed so strongly that it resembled coffee. He took a few moments to feel its warmth unfurl through him, breathed an appreciative sigh, and then dragged the newspapers that had been sitting on the table to him. He noted with a bemused expression that Hermione subscribed to both the Daily Telegraph and the Independent; leave it to Gryffindor's former know-it-all to get both the conservative and liberal slants on Muggle world events. Picking up the Independent, he scanned the lead stories.  
  
He'd not yet finished the first section of the paper before Hermione came down the stairs, putting her wallet into a knapsack. The shock evident on his face made her a little nervous and she wondered if she'd forgotten to wash the toothpaste residue from her mouth.  
  
Quickly gathering himself, he folded the paper, cast a wry glance at his still-full mug and said, "Miss Granger, in all my years of dealing with young women, I don't believe I've ever had the pleasure of unexpectedly being the laggard. Are you typically so quick to get ready or is this a special occasion?"  
  
Hermione raised an eyebrow at his question, refusing to point out his tardiness last night and tried to match his almost teasing tone. "Twenty minutes is about the longest I can stand to spend on my morning routine; 15 is probably closer to average. There's no hurry, though, finish your tea. We'll go whenever you're ready. I'll just check my e-mail in the other room"  
  
Snape's curiosity was piqued when she mentioned e-mail. He prided himself on being fairly well-versed in the Muggle world but most of his knowledge came through reading. The opportunity to actually see a computer in use intrigued him. As curious as he was, however, he was sure that it just as impolite to look over someone's shoulder as they read their electronic mail as it was to do so with the more traditional parchment and quill variety. Making a mental note to ask Hermione to show him the computer later, he finished his tea, walked to the sink and rinsed his mug.  
  
Hermione met him in the entry and said, "Ready to go? There's a coffee shop not far from here where we can have a bite to eat. It's on the way to the market so I can go on from there and you can come back here."  
  
"Actually," he said, a guarded look on his face, "I'd like to accompany you to the market if I may." He looked as though he wanted to say more but chose not to. Hermione blushed and then for the first time since he'd arrived, she grinned at him.  
  
"Given my ability in the kitchen, it probably would be for the best if you did come along. Perhaps you wouldn't mind teaching me a little about cooking something other than frozen dinners?" She tried not to look too embarrassed, hoping he would hear the inferred apology.  
  
"It would be my pleasure, Miss Granger." He opened the door for her and she chastised herself for worrying that a Slytherin wouldn't be able to pick up on a subtle message. "Shall we?" 


	5. 5 Will Wonders Never Cease?

Chapter 5 - Will Wonders Never Cease?  
  
It was quite early in the day and the crystal blue June morning was nearly perfect. In another few weeks, the night would no longer be able to keep the muggy summer at bay and the combined heat and humidity would be stifling, making everyone and everything lethargic and quiet, even in the earliest part of the day. In the still-cool air of this morning, however, sparrows, starlings and finches chirped and squawked raucously as they jockeyed for the best branches in the mulberry trees.  
  
An odd feeling of disembodiment came over Hermione. She was walking the same route she took nearly every day to her favorite coffee shop where she would no doubt order her usual breakfast of sausages, eggs and chips from the kindly lavender-haired woman who'd taken her order every summer since she could remember. At the same time, the last man she would have ever imagined including in this familiar routine was right beside her, looking for all the world as if he had done this at least as often as Hermione had.  
  
This incredibly powerful wizard, a one-time sworn enemy of all things Muggle, now appeared to be as comfortable here, on a suburban pavement, as he looked at Hogwarts or in Hogsmeade. Actually, she realized with a start, he looked slightly more relaxed.  
  
It occurred to Hermione that other than the few occasions she had seen him at 12 Grimmauld Place, she'd never seen Professor Snape away from students. The harried weeks after Voldemort's downfall didn't really count since those days had been spent dealing with ceremonies, Ministry debriefings and seemingly endless interviews with reporters from every reputable (and not- so-reputable) media outlet of the wizarding world. No one except the preternaturally unflappable Albus Dumbledore had looked relaxed during that period.  
  
Sneaking a glance at his calm and relaxed expression now, she wondered briefly if she had gone insane. The past 24 hours had been unbelievably - well, unbelievable. From the Headmaster's unexpected floo appearance yesterday morning to the incongruous sight of Hogwarts' feared Potions Master strolling down a pavement in black twill slacks, linen shirt and polished loafers, the entire situation seemed as unlikely as Dobby telling someone to sod off. Only the awareness of hunger twisting her stomach assured Hermione that she was in possession of at least some of her mental faculties.  
  
Snape noticed the shallow wrinkle on Hermione's forehead that had always indicated a combination of concentration and worry. Sure enough, she was soon biting her lower lip; for the first time since he'd rung her doorbell last night, he recognized the Hermione Granger he had taught. He silently counted to himself, 'three, two, one.' and right on schedule, Hermione reverted to type.  
  
"Professor," she began, "may I ask you a question?"  
  
"I have never yet found a means of stopping you, Miss Granger." His words were classic Snape snark but, like his demeanor this morning, his tone was relaxed. The combination was nearly as shocking as if he'd been genuinely nice.  
  
Hermione shot him another quick look that confirmed the unexpected truth: he was teasing her. After taking a moment to digest this, she remembered what she was going to ask. "Why are you here? I mean, why did you choose my house, Professor? Surely there were other options."  
  
Pleasantly relieved and somewhat surprised that she had taken his gentle mocking so well, he thought about her question and realized that he didn't really know why he was at her house. The month leading up to this little adventure had been a jumble of threats, harsh words and intimidation - and those had all been from Albus.  
  
The threats to Snape's life from the few Death Eaters that had not yet been imprisoned had been increasing in frequency. The Headmaster had been genuinely distressed at Severus' cavalier attitude about what might happen if any of his former associates carried out the threatened actions; he had tried nearly everything he could think of to force Snape out of his morbid carelessness.  
  
The truth was that Severus Snape hadn't expected to survive to see the final battle, much less to live after it. So many had died in the decades- long fight between Light and Dark - worthy, good people who deserved to live happily ever after, yet here he was, a man who had earned death many times over, able to enjoy the sun on his face and free to walk down a tree- lined street on his way to breakfast with an intelligent and attractive young witch.  
  
Albus had had a name for Severus' despondency - something about traumatic stress and survivor guilt - but to the brooding younger man, the fact that he was still breathing had simply been one more example of God's perverse sense of justice: the punishment of living was worse than any death Snape could imagine.  
  
So it was that Dumbledore insisted Snape go into hiding with someone who could teach him to survive as a Muggle. The details were, as usual, taken care of by the Headmaster.  
  
He looked at Hermione and said, "I've no idea why I am here with you, other than that Albus decided it was where I would be safest. I take it you weren't consulted prior to yesterday?"  
  
Hermione shook her head. "Much as I would love to, I can't take any credit for that brilliant idea." A shadow of a smile played about her lips. Her guest noticed and the skin around his eyes crinkled faintly in response.  
  
"Sarcasm Miss Granger? There may be hope for you yet." He commented.  
  
They arrived at the coffee shop; a rather tired looking café, really, with faded light blue dotted Swiss curtains covering the lower half of the windows. The furniture that was visible from over the top of the curtains had gone out of style, come back into fashion labeled "retro," gone back out of style, and was now on its way to being considered "classic."  
  
He looked askance at Hermione who shrugged and said without the slightest trace of apology in her voice, "I've been coming here since I was a baby. It might not be anything to look at but they do serve a great breakfast. Unless, of course, you'd rather go back home and try the diet manicotti in the freezer." She grinned up at his horrified expression.  
  
"You make a convincing argument, Miss Granger," he said as he opened the door for her and followed her in.  
  
An older woman in a pink uniform with a white apron and orthopedic shoes waved at Hermione as they made their way to a booth in the front corner of the restaurant. There was nothing remarkable about her appearance except for the noticeably blue tint to her hair. Hermione caught Severus' gaze lingering there for just a moment longer than necessary and giggled.  
  
"I used to wonder if Tonks was related to her," she whispered. "As Muggles get older, the lens of their eyes starts to yellow; they can't see the color blue as well as they once could. It's even worse if they have cataracts. If a Muggle woman dyes her hair, she tends to overcorrect the color. Rose thinks her hair is a lovely shade of pure silver."  
  
He arched an eyebrow in response and picked up a menu. "What do you recommend, Miss Granger?"  
  
"I recommend you call me Hermione. 'Miss Granger' sends me back to feeling like a first year and I've worked too hard growing up to want to go back and do it again." She said it lightly as she pretended to consider the menu, but he heard the meaning behind her comment. She was no longer in a subordinate role to him; they were equals in this venue. To say the truth, he realized, she was now the teacher and he was the student.  
  
A small flutter of panic started in his belly; he hoped she wasn't planning to exact some form of revenge for any unfair treatment she thought - probably rightly so - she'd received from him.  
  
As if she were reading his mind, Hermione said, "You needn't worry, though. Even if I'm supposed to be your teacher, I won't terrorize you as you did me. I personally don't believe intimidation is a valid or particularly effective educational method."  
  
"Miss Granger," he began, but at her sharp look he bowed his head slightly and corrected himself: "Hermione, how many times did your classmates' interest wander off during Professor Sprout's, Professor Vector's or Professor Flitwick's lectures?"  
  
"I never let my attention wander, Professor." Hermione was aghast at his implication.  
  
"You may call me Severus and I asked about your classmates' concentration, not yours." The familiar smirk was back in place and she'd scored a coup in getting him to drop the formal titles; all was right with her world, at least for the moment.  
  
"Oh, erm . I guess there was a good bit of note-passing during Arithmancy. Herbology - well, it's hard to tell since most of what we did was in the greenhouses but I seem to remember a lot of giggling. I know there was a lot of extra swishing and flicking in Charms class. Why do you ask?" Hermione had put her faded plastic covered menu down.  
  
"How does one brew a boil cure potion?" He asked the question so casually that Hermione was instantly alerted to the dangerous turn the conversation was undoubtedly about to take.  
  
"To a mixture of dried nettles, crushed snake fangs, and stewed horned slugs, you add porcupine quills," she responded carefully.  
  
"When do you add the porcupine quills, Hermione?"  
  
"After removing the cauldron from the fire, of course; what is your point?" He smiled in a not quite evil way; she may have 'worked too hard growing up' but she still had that famous Gryffindor impatience.  
  
"What happens if you add the quills before you remove the cauldron from the fire?" He was nearly ready to drive his point home.  
  
"The cauldron melts, of course, as does anything the mixture touches." She paused and looked at him, realization dawning over her face.  
  
"That is one of the least dangerous mistakes that a careless Potions student could make. And how many serious accidents or fatalities did you hear of during your time as a student, Hermione?"  
  
"None," she admitted.  
  
"The art of brewing Potions is exacting and dangerous work. Many of the ingredients are poisonous, volatile or extremely rare. Having children work with these ingredients requires - borrowing a phrase from our late friend Mr. Moody - constant vigilance. Inattentive children are a risk no one can afford. As it is, enough damage is done as a result of an alarmingly high incidence of dunderheadedness." He had slipped back into the fearsome professor role; Rose, who had come over to the booth to take their order, scurried back to check the salt cellars she had just finished filling at the tone of his voice.  
  
Hermione took a moment to consider her words and then said, "Surely, Severus, there are ways to ensure the safety and attention of your students outside of verbal abuse. I would imagine that if you'd just been nice, most if not all of Neville's accidents might have been avoided. He was terrified of you, you know."  
  
He paused a moment, wondering whether he should be flattered or insulted at her statement.  
  
"Hermione, can you think of even one instance where I have been 'nice'?" He asked so softly that she had to lean forward in order to hear him.  
  
She was torn. In all honesty and in the best cases, she had never seen him be anything other than a sarcastic and demanding task master. Still, there had been a few glimpses of something close to sensitivity if not kindness in his manner since he'd arrived at her door. She so wanted to encourage that behavior.  
  
"You've been nice to me," she said. He looked at her with an incredulous expression. "It's true," she protested.  
  
"You never said anything mean about my appearance even though I looked like death warmed over this morning. You haven't made fun of way the house is decorated even though I'm certain it's not your taste. And your sarcastic commentary about my meal choices last night weren't nasty. Maybe that's not the textbook definition of nice but you certainly weren't mean or abusive. And you very easily could have been."  
  
At this, the expression of disbelief on his face grew.  
  
"You weren't nasty. Those frozen dinners were pretty pathetic, but instead of dressing me down, you simply made do - quite admirably, I might add, given what there was to work with." She finally stopped to take a breath and realized that she had been babbling, just as when she was a child.  
  
Before she could berate herself, Snape said, "Hermione, you may have a point."  
  
That sealed it; she was insane.  
  
He continued: "I have never been nor will I ever be a patient man, nor am I ever going to be particularly gentle and soft-hearted. But perhaps there is a less . offensive middle ground I might find."  
  
The smile that lit up her face nearly took his breath away. 


	6. 6 Supermarket Sweep

Author's Notes: Heaven help me, this is turning into something more than just a quick romp.  
  
Also, please forgive any jarring non-UK representations. I did my best research but the fact remains that I am a Yank (having been born in NYC, I think that actually makes me a damn Yankee, even though I do like grits and know better than to order "just one"). Certain aspects of the story may be completely at odds with real life across the pond - especially when it comes to grocery stores. I beg and thank you for your tolerance!  
  
Chapter 6 - Supermarket Sweep  
  
Breakfast turned out to be just as satisfying as Hermione had promised. Despite having had eggs and potatoes the night before, Snape was more than happy to indulge again, adding sausage, tomatoes and beans to round out his meal. The tea wasn't quite as overpowering as he'd have liked but having already had a cup at Hermione's, the lack wasn't as critical as it might otherwise have been.  
  
Conversation revolved around the classes Hermione had been taking at university. She was reading in Arithmancy, Potions, Physics and - to Snape's eye-rolling scorn - a course called "The Psychology of Learning."  
  
"You're not turning into a jelly-spined, soft-headed, platitude-spouting psychic therapist, are you?" His contempt was only marginally outweighed by his brilliance with a sarcastic phrase; frankly, it was hard to separate the two.  
  
"It's 'psychotherapist,' and no, I have no intention of going into counseling as a career. Nor am I particularly interested in acting as some kind of emotional hot water bottle to anyone. I just thought it sounded interesting." Hermione paused and leveled a glare at her former professor. "You would probably do well to read some of the texts, especially if you're serious about changing - I mean, finding a less offensive middle ground in your teaching methods."  
  
He snorted: "What could Muggle textbooks possibly have to say about teaching a dangerous craft to aggressively mediocre dunderheads?"  
  
Hermione managed to maintain her faux shocked expression just long enough to see him register surprise and then defensiveness before she dissolved into laughter. "Severus Snape, you can not mean to tell me that the Head of Slytherin House needs to be reminded that if he is to vanquish his enemy, he must study them first?"  
  
Good Lord, the woman was right.  
  
Rose had put their bill on the table and while he was still dealing with the shock of having been out-Slytherined - by a Gryffindor, no less - Hermione had picked up the piece of paper and made it to the cash register. By the time he realized that they were leaving, it was too late to feel any embarrassment at allowing a woman to pay for his meal. Hermione was already out the door and halfway down the block.  
  
Thankful for his long legs, he caught up to her quickly.  
  
He could smell the market before he could see it; somewhere in the building that Hermione pointed to was a crate full of cantaloupe melons about to turn. If the temperature had been just a few degrees warmer, the odor would be overpowering.  
  
Walking into the structure, the first reaction Severus had was full-on sensory overload. In addition to the aforementioned smell of overripe melons were the scents of virtually every kind of produce known to man, combined with various notes of fish, cured meats, and the sweetness of baked goods. Gaudy colors, signs, posters and painfully blue-bright fluorescent lighting caused his pupils to dilate to mere pin-pricks.  
  
The noise was at a migraine-inducing volume. The combination of unidentifiable yet inane music that droned at a mind-numbingly consistent tempo and was far too heavy on violins was frequently but unpredictably interrupted by the crackle and nasal whine of voices requesting prices. Adding the sudden, nerve-wracking metallic crash of wheeled pushcarts made the former Death Eater wonder if this were some hidden cache of Voldemort- created torture.  
  
"A bit overwhelming, isn't it?" Hermione asked softly. Her calm presence provided a welcome counterpart to the chaos that surrounded him. Realizing that he had probably been standing with his mouth agape and even less color to his complexion than usual, he gave himself a mental shake and followed Hermione as she disentangled a trolley from a long line of conjoined metal.  
  
He watched as she gave the contraption an experimental push or two; his eyebrow arched and she answered his silent question: "Sometimes one of the wheels is misaligned or broken and the trolley either wobbles or makes an awful noise."  
  
Thinking that nothing could make the cacophony of this place any worse, he nonetheless nodded and followed her as she headed off toward the produce section just to the right of the entry.  
  
Catching up to her as she breezed past all the loose vegetables, Snape grabbed the trolley handle and asked, "What exactly are you planning to eat today?"  
  
A look of surprise crossed her face. "Erm, I guess I don't really know. What would you like?"  
  
"Nothing that comes in a box, certainly," he said pointedly. "Do they have a butcher here? Or a fishmonger?"  
  
"Yes," she answered, obviously perplexed, "but those departments are at the back of the store. We can get to that later."  
  
"Hermione, how do you prioritize your homework? Do you complete your assignments based on those references located most conveniently in the library?" He asked, his patience an obvious façade.  
  
She shook her head. "Of course not, I work on the assignments that are either due first or those that look to take the longest to complete."  
  
"Precisely. So why would you allow the floor plan of your grocer to determine your menu?"  
  
Hermione was completely lost by his argument and it showed.  
  
He sighed and said, "What would you prefer for supper this evening: beef, pork, poultry, or fish?"  
  
She thought a moment. "Chicken."  
  
"How would you prepare it?" He asked, putting her hands back on the metal cart's handle.  
  
"How would I prepare it?" Her eyes widened in fear until she saw his amused expression. "Oh, how would I like it prepared. Well, I've always loved roasted chicken. My mum used to make it on Sundays with gravy and potatoes."  
  
"Roast chicken it is, then, and you shall prepare it, my dear Miss Granger. Under close supervision, of course. Now, lead me to the butcher if you please. As with any potion, we begin by determining if the available ingredients suit our purpose." With that, he gave her a gentle push.  
  
At the back of the store were the usual coolers, filled with meat and poultry. Snape looked from one end of the lane to the other. "Is there a butcher at work here or is this the exclusive domain of the plastic- encased?"  
  
"The chickens are here, Severus." She pointed to a plethora of cellophane straight-jacketed birds at his knees.  
  
"I can see that, Hermione, but none of these birds appear to have been breathing any time recently." He picked one up and hit it against the cooler's edge. It was as hard as one of Hagrid's rock cakes. "If I'm going to go to the trouble of cooking and eating something, I would prefer to know that it wasn't older than the incoming first year students." Hermione was beginning to truly enjoy his dry wit. When it wasn't directed at her, that is.  
  
She hailed a burly man in a blood-stained apron and white paper hat. "Excuse me, do you have any." she paused and looked at Severus who nodded his encouragement "fresh chickens?"  
  
"Free range, organic, or pastured?" He asked. Hermione was so relieved that the man hadn't been insulted at the question that it took a moment for her to realize that he'd given her options she didn't understand.  
  
After a quick education on the various types of fresh chicken, they selected a small bird, and to Hermione's surprise, a rasher of bacon. There was a moment of confusion when Severus tried to pay the butcher for the meat; Hermione subtly stepped in between the men, obscuring the neatly folded but alarmingly large number of pound notes Snape had pulled from his pocket.  
  
His expression remained neutral but his eyes flashed a variety of emotions at her action: surprise, confusion, annoyance, and panic - in that order and in rapid succession.  
  
"We pay for everything all at once, when we're done," Hermione said under her breath as she pushed both Severus and the cart back toward the produce. As she turned and saw the orderly layout of the store into departments, she was suddenly struck by the likely reason for at least part of his confusion.  
  
"The store is arranged into separate areas, just like at a farmer's market, but everything is still owned by the store, not by the individuals who work in that area. The butcher doesn't have to pay for the meat he sells; the company buys it. The butcher earns a wage that the store pays him. It's the same for the baker, the dairy, the green grocer - everyone who works here.  
  
"What, then, is the incentive for the butcher - or any of the other workers - to provide the best quality?" His question surprised Hermione; for some reason, she'd never thought that Snape would be a capitalist.  
  
"I guess there are a few reasons. First, there's always pride in one's job and knowledge." He snorted at that.  
  
"If the man is so knowledgeable, wouldn't that be an enticement for him to swindle unsuspecting customers into buying bad merchandise?" He looked askance at the paper-wrapped bird they'd just agreed to buy.  
  
"I suppose it's possible," Hermione said thoughtfully, "but it would only take one or two instances of that happening before people would stop coming here. And you know how people are, they talk. I've read that customers will tell twice as many people about a bad experience they've had somewhere as they tell about a good experience. In a neighborhood like this, bad word-of-mouth advertising can shutter a business, leaving that unscrupulous butcher - or whomever - out of a job."  
  
Snape looked skeptical.  
  
Hermione continued: "From a more pragmatic standpoint, the better the supermarket does - the more customers it has, the better quality food it's able to bring in and sell - theoretically, anyway, the more it can afford to pay its workers."  
  
"Thank you," he mumbled.  
  
"Sorry?" Hermione had heard him; she just couldn't resist making him say it again.  
  
"I said 'Thank you,' and I know you heard me the first time." He repeated in a distinctly grumpy tone.  
  
"You're welcome. What are you thanking me for?" This question, unlike her last one, was genuine.  
  
"Thank you for preventing me from making what might have been an embarrassing faux pas and for choosing not to belittle my ignorance. And yes, I am perfectly aware of the irony of my statement, so I am also thanking you in advance for not belaboring the point."  
  
Hermione grinned as they headed back to pick up lemons, potatoes, and onions. Severus also threw a few limes, some strawberries, red-leafed lettuce and tomatoes into the trolley.  
  
They wound through the store, Severus telling Hermione what he wanted and Hermione leading him to the appropriate location.  
  
In less than half an hour, they'd assembled everything they needed for the salade niçoise they planned for lunch and for the roast chicken supper. A few other items intended to round out a well-stocked kitchen went into the basket and Severus deemed their shopping finished.  
  
Hermione's head was swimming. Severus was nearly as knowledgeable about food as he was about potions and there was no way she could absorb everything he said in such a short period of time. She did know, however, that she would never again consider a frozen dinner the height of an in- home dining experience.  
  
Putting two last-minute items in the trolley (a pint each of chocolate chip ice cream and lemon sorbet), she wheeled over to the checkout lanes. Severus stood back, watching the entire process with interest as he reached into his pocket to extract the money needed to pay for their purchases.  
  
Hermione took all the groceries from the trolley and placed them on a conveyer belt. She glanced up at Severus and borrowing an expression from him, arched a sardonic eyebrow at him. He moved to the trolley and began to unload it. A bored looking cashier picked up each and every item, passed it over a small window set into the counter, and set the items aside in a separate area.  
  
Once Hermione had set Severus to unloading the cart, she moved to the end of the line and began placing the items into plastic bags. Before she could finish, the cashier drawled a number to her and Hermione took a small plastic card out of her wallet. Slipping the card through a machine, she pressed a number of buttons, put the card away and finished putting the groceries into bags.  
  
Snape suddenly realized that she must have just paid. Again. Albus had given him a rather substantial sum of Muggle cash to defray Hermione's costs during his stay but the girl simply wasn't giving him an opportunity to pay.  
  
Telling himself that his embarrassment was somehow Hermione's fault (he'd figure out exactly how that worked later), Snape grabbed four of the six bags from the counter and stood back to allow her to lead the way out of the store.  
  
"What was that about?" he huffed.  
  
"What was what about?" she answered, completely nonplussed.  
  
"You paid for the food. You did pay, didn't you?" For a moment, the fearsome Potions Master was reduced to a frightened child as he fought back panic at the vision of hordes of Muggles chasing him for having stolen all the food they had selected at the market.  
  
Hermione laughed out loud. "Yes, Severus, I paid with my debit card." His expression lost its terrified edge but he didn't look at all comforted; she elaborated. "It's an electronic way for the store to draw funds from my bank account automatically. It's faster and easier than writing a check and I don't have to carry cash with me. And before you go all noble on me, Albus deposited a rather generous sum to my account to cover these things. You needn't worry that you're bankrupting me."  
  
There you go, it was her fault. She'd had the money all along thanks to Albus and had never told him. His chagrin was her responsibility, just as he'd suspected. He smirked at her back as the walked home, then caught up with her to ask for more details about how the payment system had worked.  
  
For an approximation of my family's favorite roast chicken recipe, try the recipe posted at Food Network's website, thanks to "Tyler's Ultimate" show. ml 


	7. 7 Everybody's Surfin' Now

Chapter 7 - Everybody's Surfing Now  
  
Once they'd gotten home and put the groceries away, they began assembling the salade niçoise. Given that they had to boil the eggs and cook the potatoes, it would take a bit of time before they were ready to eat.  
  
As Hermione tore the lettuce, she commented that it would be easier to nip out to a local chip shop for lunch. She'd expected her persnickety professor to rage against her bourgeois taste but, to her great surprise, he'd nodded.  
  
"Still," he said after whisking the vinaigrette to a perfect suspension, "one cannot survive on fish and chips -- solely."  
  
Hermione was speechless.  
  
Severus Snape had just left a pun hanging in the air. It was waving at her, mocking her silence, beckoning to her as a siren called sailors to their doom.  
  
"Professor!" She gasped, her expression horrified. "I never took you for that kind of man!"  
  
The subtly bemused expression he'd worn was now replaced with barely concealed apprehension.  
  
Hermione continued, letting her horror leach into her words: "You - you.. cod!"  
  
It took 2.7 nanoseconds for her rejoinder to register in his mind and then he shocked her even further: he laughed. Not a snarky, cruel snicker but a genuine laugh, chocolate-mousse rich; it reverberated through the deepest parts of her and left a warm tingle.  
  
His laughter relaxed into an easy grin - one that suited him quite well, she noted - as he replied: "I'm afraid I'm about to flounder here."  
  
Hermione's smile was slightly less confident as she admitted, "I'm terribly addicted to puns - as in: I'm addicted but terrible at them. I guess I'm just a fish out of water."  
  
For some inexplicable reason, it seemed that a substantial weight had suddenly lifted from Snape's shoulders and he looked almost at ease. Almost.  
  
He shrugged as he peeled the shells from the now boiled eggs and said nonchalantly, "It's refreshing to know there's at least one area in which you don't excel."  
  
Two bombshells in as many minutes; she was in danger of hyperventilating. He'd just paid her a compliment -- one with no obvious backhanded slap to it.  
  
Who was this man and what had he done with the real Severus Snape?  
  
As they sat down to eat, she used his comment to segue into an off-handed joke about her inability to sleep last night. His apparently genuine interest in the dream that had woken her led Hermione to take huge leap of faith in his trustworthiness; she outlined the recurrent theme of having forgotten to attend a crucial class for an entire school year.  
  
The fact that he was not only sympathetic to the fear revealed by her dream but claimed that he had his own recurrent school-related nightmare truly warmed her heart. She had no doubt that given his history the kind of dreams that would keep Severus Snape awake at night made the word "nightmare" horribly inadequate. Still, she appreciated his effort to ease her embarrassment and she laughed outright at his claim that the one dream that caused him to bolt out of his bed in a blind panic revolved around being condemned to teach first year Gryffindor/Slytherin double potions classes every day for the rest of his life.  
  
After lunch, they washed, dried and put away the dishes. To a casual observer, the silence between them may have seemed uncomfortable but to the two solitary individuals, it felt right, somehow; accepting and easy.  
  
They moved into the living room to read. In addition to the two daily newspapers, Hermione subscribed to "The Economist," "New Scientist" and, interestingly, "The Tatler". They remained largely silent except for the occasional "Oh, you'll love this --" or "Have you heard --?" Both were pleasantly surprised at how natural it felt to simply sit in the same room and read.  
  
By midway through the afternoon, Hermione's yawns had become so frequent that Severus finally slapped his magazine shut, grabbed Hermione's hand and dragged her up the stairs. At the landing, he literally shoved her toward her room with an admonishment to get some sleep or he'd drug her with some primitive Muggle concoction that would have a particularly nasty and long- lived after-effect.  
  
She turned in the doorway to her room to apologize for being a poor hostess, her smile vulnerable and sheepish. Something about her unguarded expression and sincere apology hit a previously undiscovered nerve in Severus' heart and it triggered an involuntary response in him: he leaned in and kissed her gently on her forehead.  
  
The fact that she didn't slap his face was either testament to her profound fatigue or the first sign of something deeper. This realization hit Snape as he was halfway down the stairs; he chose to push any further thoughts regarding the situation to the furthest recesses of his mind and headed to the kitchen to wash the chicken in preparation for dinner.  
  
Something was tickling her nose. It wasn't Crookshanks; bless him, he'd passed away during her seventh year at Hogwarts, almost one year to the day from when he'd sent Mrs. Norris to her eternal reward in a blaze of carnal glory. It wasn't her hair; she'd plaited it and it was still firmly held in its thick weave. It was the smell of sautéing onions.  
  
Hermione sat bolt upright in bed, convinced that someone had broken into her house and was going to . what? Cook her to death? A moment later, she remembered that Professor Snape - Severus - was staying with her and was likely the reason for the savory odor.  
  
A luxurious stretch and a glance at the bedside clock got her moving. She didn't want to miss any additional cooking tutorials so she twitched off the quilt that had covered her and headed downstairs.  
  
It could only have been because she was in her stocking feet combined with the loud snapping staccato of onions in the pan. Given the Potions Master's history as a Death Eater and a spy, there was no way a not-quite 20 year old girl could sneak up on him. Still, he seemed completely unaware that Hermione was watching him from the doorway.  
  
He was tall. That was hardly a surprise. Even during her first year, when everyone had towered over her, it had been obvious that he was taller than nearly anyone else at Hogwarts with the obvious exception of Hagrid. The surprising thing about him now, standing at her stove, was how lithe he was. Snape had always had a dangerously predatory bearing at school, but here - relaxed and not braced for catastrophe or torture - his movements were balletic; almost feline.  
  
Hermione cleared her throat softly as she moved into the kitchen. She'd honestly been reluctant to give up her surveillance but she didn't want to forego the opportunity to learn to make her favorite dish. As it seemed she'd already missed several steps, she decided to make her presence known and moved to stand at his right elbow.  
  
True to his promise (or threat, as she'd originally taken it), Severus turned the wooden spoon over to Hermione and led her through the steps of making roast chicken. By the time they sat down to eat, her face was flushed and several strands of hair had plastered themselves to her neck which had grown moist from the combined heat of the kitchen and her own nervousness.  
  
Severus took the carving knife and fork. Piercing the crispy skin of the chicken, he arched an eyebrow at Hermione who was nervously chewing her lower lip as he began to slice. Clear juices ran down the side of the bird and Hermione breathed a sigh of relief; at least the meat was cooked through.  
  
She placed a few roasted potatoes and some steamed broccoli on each of their plates as he worked through the carving process with surgical precision. Several slices of chicken and a generous helping of bread stuffing and gravy in addition to the vegetables made their meal look like some photographic layout of a traditional English supper. As delectable as it looked, it was nothing compared to how it tasted.  
  
"My compliments to the chef," Snape said after taking a bite of chicken. His eyes held the smile behind his words.  
  
"I can't take the credit," she said softly. "I was lucky enough to be taught by one of the best." Her eyes held his steadily but the flush to her face deepened. A few moments of silence from the once overly talkative girl gave the compliment an eloquence he hadn't expected.  
  
After they'd eaten the last morsel of food their bodies could contain, Severus broached the subject of computers. Hermione had been shocked that he'd known anything about the completely Muggle device. He'd obviously read a good deal about them and was even able to make a snarky comment about the Yank responsible for marketing the touchy and ubiquitous operating system most personal computers used.  
  
So, after he guided her through the steps of setting the chicken's water- covered carcass to simmer in a pot to make stock, Hermione led her former professor out of the kitchen and into the living room.  
  
Given her parents' careers, a home office had never been a priority. There just wasn't much work a dentist could do at home; even the back office activities like updating patients' charts, billing, and correspondence were done at the practice.  
  
In fact, the Granger's hadn't even had a computer at home until the summer before Hermione's seventh year, and then they'd only purchased a low-end model to use for email. It wasn't too long before they upgraded though. Hermione's dad had discovered fantasy role-playing and quickly became addicted to Everquest. Higher quality sound and graphics were suddenly important, as was a faster processor. He'd even gone so far as to get broadband access for the house.  
  
All this meant that a nook in the living room had been converted into a modest but top-of-the-line computer center. A small walnut library table fit into a niche in the parlor that was unnoticeable unless you stepped into the room and turned around. The four foot wide, three foot deep recess in the otherwise square room was tucked between the arched doorway and the wall that separated it from the kitchen. It had probably been originally designed to hold a built-in bookshelf or curio cabinet. An old- fashioned leather seated walnut office chair was pushed under the edge of the table.  
  
The computer and printer fit neatly onto the table, leaving just enough room for a small amount of paperwork and one Muggle photo of Hermione and her parents. Hermione brought one of the ladder-backed chairs in from the kitchen and set it next to the office chair, which she pulled out and motioned for Severus to occupy.  
  
"Shouldn't you lead the way?" Snape asked. For the first time, Hermione recognized a bit of honest apprehension in his voice and the revelation that this man could be intimidated was both exhilarating and humbling to her. In all the time she'd known him, she'd never seen him genuinely nervous about anything. Even earlier today at the store - he'd been uncomfortable, but he knew how a free market economy worked; this was something else entirely and the fact that he'd let her see his discomfort brought a rush of some emotion she couldn't quite name.  
  
As he sat in the larger chair, Hermione reached across and pointed to the small button at the base of the desktop, identifying the power switch for him. Snape had been in enough Muggle buildings to know about on/off switches. Telling him to "turn it on" brought a slight flush to both their cheeks. Hermione assumed his flush was from nerves; Severus assumed hers was from the pinot noir they'd had with supper.  
  
The first truly awkward silence of the day occurred while the computer ran through its start-up routine. They were suddenly uncomfortably aware of the other's proximity and the more they noticed the silence, the less either could think to say.  
  
Finally, the computer piped up with an upbeat tune - something jazzy that made Hermione grin. "It's 'The Peanuts' Theme' by Vince Guaraldi," she explained. At Severus' blank expression, she rolled her eyes and muttered, "It's a Muggle thing, you wouldn't understand."  
  
An hour later, Severus felt like he'd been handed the keys to an incredible kingdom. At first, it had seemed as though everything had been in some foreign language that was nearly English but just different enough as to be largely unintelligible; rather like listening to Americans.  
  
His innate desire to excel combined with his fear that Hermione would use her superior knowledge and experience to belittle him, resulted in a rush of adrenaline the likes of which he hadn't felt since confronting Voldemort on the battlefield. He tried to remind himself that this was hardly a life- or-death issue, but his body's response to feeling overwhelmed was sending his heart into overdrive and he prayed she wouldn't notice the thin film of perspiration that had broken across his brow.  
  
Of course she had noticed it. It would have been virtually impossible not to see that his hands trembled in almost exactly the same way hers had when he'd told her to baste the chicken just a few hours earlier. In fact, based on her recent experience, Hermione was willing to bet a substantial amount of money that there was a trail of sweat running down his back right now. Hers had only recently evaporated, leaving her feeling a little sticky but definitely smug.  
  
Tempting as it was to give the man a taste of his own pedagogical medicine, she knew her heart wouldn't be in it and there was no way to be half- heartedly intimidating. Besides, she reasoned, this might be her chance to demonstrate some alternative instructional methods - alternative to his usual terror, sarcasm and scorn, anyway.  
  
Hermione was pleased that Severus already had a fairly good grasp on the memory and storage system of the computer; his analogy to a library or a well-stocked set of file drawers was apt and reflected the reading he'd done. The internet, however, was a bit more of a challenge.  
  
The idea that there was no regulatory authority, no one limiting what could be published - not even an economic barrier - came as a shock to him. No matter how many different ways he tried to pose the question, the answer came back the same: anyone could post just about anything for everyone to see.  
  
"What if it isn't true?" Even though it was unintentional, Snape was doing his best impersonation of a dunderhead on this issue.  
  
Hermione sighed and repeated - still patient but with a definite edge to her voice - "It doesn't matter, Severus. Think of it as graffiti; anyone can scribble something onto a wall. This wall just happens to be electronic and viewable by anyone with a computer." He shook his head and continued to look down the list of internet addresses that claimed to have the cure for lycanthropy.  
  
For the next hour, she tried to demonstrate the answer to his question in every way she could imagine. Having already found the list of sites that fraudulently claimed to be able to deliver werewolves from their curse, she tried showing him websites the included suggestions on avoiding false internet claims or schemes.  
  
She had thought to compare some of the unsolicited email to the junk post he'd seen earlier in the day but given the difficulty he had believing that companies would waste money sending unsolicited mail - much less sending mail that was unlikely to be read by anyone other than the refuse collector - she gave up on that idea.  
  
She finally pinched the bridge of her nose in a frighteningly accurate depiction of an exhausted Potions professor at the end of a long day. He caught sight of her and chuckled. For a moment, Hermione was horrified; now he'd never believe there was a better way to teach.  
  
His comment, then, came as quite a surprise: "Interesting. After nearly two hours of this frustrating endeavor, you appear to feel just as exhausted and exasperated as I do after teaching, but it took you about an hour and a half longer than it would have taken me. You were able to apply your mind to different ways of getting your point across to me. I would have spent all that mental effort concocting new and ever-more cutting insults and threats. Your methods may indeed have value I hadn't considered."  
  
She hit him. Hard.  
  
"Severus! You were playing at being thick-headed this whole time?"  
  
"I wish I could claim that were entirely true. Unfortunately, I apparently am thick-headed when it comes to certain aspects of this contraption and the internet. I am, however, rather brilliant at observing and predicting the behavior of well-meaning Gryffindors." Snape's smile had none of its usual poisonous smirk to it though, leaving her with the impression that he'd managed to make fun of both of them equally.  
  
All in all, it had been a successful venture. 


	8. 8 Hot for Teacher

Chapter 8 - Hot for Teacher  
  
Author's Notes - My lifetime debt to Barrie deepens; not only does she encourage, cajole and correct my work, she lets me borrow stuff. A tip of the hat (and a blushed apology) for our favorite anti-ardor charm, m'dear!  
  
As the next several days passed, Hermione and Severus fell into a routine. Whichever of them woke up first would fix a pot of tea. Severus' preference for tea so strong it could melt iron was a point of contention the first time he brewed it; after taking a sip, Hermione thought her face would turn inside out from the bitterness.  
  
Twenty solid minutes of sarcasm and particularly vituperative commentary later, Hermione got enough of a caffeine jolt to realize that if he would just pour her a cup 4 minutes into his usual 12 minute steeping process, they would both be happy. She then apologized for her snarky remarks to a decidedly amused Severus.  
  
After finishing tea, scanning through the papers and getting dressed for the day, they would walk to the café for breakfast. Their conversations ranged over nearly every conceivable topic: politics (Muggle and wizard), religion (likewise), various articles they'd read (Snape had been reading Hermione's "Psychology of Learning" texts and had a litany of creative and occasionally accurate snide comments about them), the perfect name for the shade of Rose's hair (it was a toss-up between lavender, early sunset blue and Hermione's surprisingly accurate "Persian lilac"), and any other subject that came to mind. Well, at first, it was every subject save one.  
  
It wasn't until the end of the second week of his stay that they began to make cautious references to the final battle and the changes it had wrought in their lives. The first few times they'd stuck to broad generalities, mostly about changes at the Ministry, then the continued threats to Snape's life. Eventually, each lost their respective dread of the other having an emotional reaction to the topic - Hermione had feared "Bastard Snape" would return, Severus had neither the desire nor the ability to deal with a teary "silly girl" - and they finally began to talk at length about what had happened.  
  
These conversations were both difficult and reassuring. The emotions were draining, especially given the fact that both of them had sacrificed so much. Precious few had experienced even a fraction of what Hermione and Severus had; there really wasn't anyone else they had been able to talk to.  
  
Snape had spent his entire adult life walking a razor's edge of espionage, virtually every moment steeped in deception, terror and self-sacrifice. The anger and resentment that had grown in him with each passing year had become a disfiguring tumor that he didn't seem able to excise.  
  
For the first time in his life, he was able to talk about what he'd gone through with someone who, while not dispassionate, was at least not judgmental. Hermione listened in a way that was neither pitying nor condescending; she was genuinely interested in how he'd felt and what he'd thought. Her carefully worded questions were insightful, if sometimes painful. The silence she gave him as he formulated his responses was unexpected and considerate. Her manner was neither gentle nor delicate but it was respectful and liberating in a way he could never have imagined.  
  
Hermione had lost her family, her best friends and nearly all of her classmates, most dying beside her on the battlefield. The guilt she felt for not having been able to protect them, for simply having survived, had led to an isolating bitterness that precluded any "normal" relationships. Severus listened to her self-directed anger and was shocked to recognize many of the same feelings. His first impulse had been to belittle her - she was an innocent after all - but the way she'd listened to him had made an impression. Snape reined in his derision and tried to direct her through the same kind of thought processes she'd forced him to consider. She found freedom in being able to analyze and even criticize what had happened without feeling disloyal to the memory of those who had died.  
  
As the days went by, the weather got progressively warmer and stickier. Given the typically early start they had in the day, Severus and Hermione were usually able to enjoy the walk to the café, but as the summer continued, the heat began encroaching on their comfort. It wasn't long before the season was completely ensconced, making even the earliest morning sweaty and stale.  
  
Rather than keeping them at home, this gave the pair an excuse to linger over breakfast, enjoying the cool air in the coffee shop before venturing outside. Once they stepped onto the steaming pavement to make their way to the market, they would debate the day's menu, selecting two or three main dishes to try, leaving the final decision on the quality and selection of the ingredients they found at the store.  
  
Hermione had been accustomed to doing her shopping no more frequently than once a week. That was how her mother had shopped so it had been how Hermione had shopped. She'd learned in some of her earliest shopping forays as a teenager that most fruits and vegetables spoiled after several days so she'd avoided buying anything other than potatoes, apples and carrots, all of which seemed to have nearly indefinite shelf lives. Any fruit she bought was typically canned, any vegetables were frozen.  
  
Severus had been appalled at both her diet's lack of fresh produce and the haphazard way she purchased her groceries. He'd spent a goodly amount of time showing her how to choose the best ingredients the market had to offer and had even convinced her to go to the local farmer's market once a week for special acquisitions like fresh-picked baby peas and strawberries.  
  
The first time they'd gone shopping, he'd been only minimally sarcastic and cutting. His discomfiture at being so far out of his element had taken most of his attention away from Hermione's shopping technique. The only semi-snarky thing he'd said had been about the way she prioritized her shopping according to the way the supermarket was laid out and frankly, his question about whether she organized her study time according to the library's floor plan had been rather clever. Not that she'd tell him that, of course.  
  
Subsequent trips to the grocer's had been less stressful for him which meant he was able to put more pressure on her. During one trip, he refused to say anything about her selections, leaving her fully responsible for choosing all the ingredients for the day. Fortunately, it had been a day they'd decided on a pasta salad for lunch and grilled chicken breasts for supper, so even though Hermione had been terrified at his silence, the rational part of her mind knew she couldn't go too far astray.  
  
During other trips, he would lecture or fall into his old habit of belittling and criticizing. The lectures weren't bad but Hermione was no longer the little girl who'd needed approval and praise; she was not about to tolerate anything that smacked of disrespect or abuse and told him so.  
  
Eventually he began to make an effort to draw her out as he taught Hermione about cooking and about food, encouraging questions and making her elaborate on her comments. His efforts made her smile; as much as he mocked the psychology books he'd been reading, it was obvious that they were making an impression on him. She could see Severus trying different teaching tactics on, as if they were new sets of robes. Beautiful robes, as dark and velvety as his voice, clinging to his broad shoulders and covering his strong back and swirling around his well-toned legs .  
  
The sound of brakes squealing as they locked echoed through her mind. Mentally slapping and throwing cold water on herself, she felt a little like the world had shifted under her feet. She had just caught herself thinking about Snape's robes. Worse yet, she'd been thinking about what was under those robes.  
  
No wine for her tonight; she must still be under the influence of last night's sangria. She turned her mind back to the shopping list he was trying to get her to discuss.  
  
They were both quite adventuresome in their culinary tastes and Hermione was slowly growing more confident in the kitchen. As a result, they'd had an interesting array of food including vichyssoise, chicken couscous, and Hermione's proudest achievement: pizza with hand-tossed dough. Severus had been less than enthused about that last dish but the obvious delight Hermione had shown when her dough had risen - "It actually worked!" she'd crowed - had been infectious.  
  
The pride she'd radiated when she pulled the pizzas from the oven had been charming. He'd been flattered that she'd preferred his traditional margherita combination of buffalo-milk mozzarella, basil leaves and freshly chopped tomatoes to her more contemporary mixture of pepperoni and black olives.  
  
Severus had watched, entranced, as her full lips closed around the bite of his pizza on the fork he'd offered her. When her eyes rolled slightly then slowly closed in obvious enjoyment of the flavors spilling over her tongue, his heart had begun to pound a tattoo against his ribs. The husky moan of appreciation that slipped from her as she swallowed had left him throbbing for the rest of the meal. Even thinking about it now in the glaring ugly light of the noisy and smelly store was causing him to harden.  
  
Realizing that he was on the verge of embarrassing himself - despite the heat, he now missed the concealing safety his teaching robes - he tried to think of something to cool his body's response, to think of the most unappealing thing he could imagine: Madame Pince in . well, anything. Let's face it, the vision of that woman would make any man go as limp as a lo mein noodle.  
  
Both Severus and Hermione were unusually quiet as they made their way to the cashier with their food.  
  
Back at the house, Hermione went upstairs to take a cool shower. It was a sweltering day but that wasn't the reason she needed to chill herself - she'd been unable to stop thinking about her former teacher's body. The graceful way he moved the evening she'd watched him in her kitchen made her think about other things she wanted to see his body do. Was he ticklish? Did he sleep on his back, stomach or side? Did he have a hairy chest? Would he be as focused on her when they made love as he was on the ingredients he'd been cooking that night?  
  
'When they made love?' Hermione yelped as the full impact of the icy water hit her and froze the traitorous thought out of existence.  
  
Her only experiences with sex had been disappointing to say the least, and she'd begun to believe that sex was going to be one thing that Hermione Granger didn't do well. Contrary to what she'd heard of popular opinion, she hadn't been intimate with Viktor Krum, Harry or Ron.  
  
Viktor had been too intense and too difficult to understand for her to pursue anything other than a brief and barely romantic friendship. Harry and Ron had been her best friends forever. In her mind, they were all three genderless. The few times she had thought of them as male had been either because they'd been eye-rollingly crude and immature or because they were able to lift heavier objects than she could.  
  
She'd only had sex a few times; her first lover - if you could call him that - was the son of her parents' best friends. He had been a virgin as well and had been so nervous that he'd barely been able to complete the act. He'd been horribly embarrassed; they'd gone out twice more but were never intimate again. Last she'd heard, he had moved up north and gone to work at a hair salon.  
  
Her next encounter had been with an older university student she'd met while talking to her arithmancy professor. His blond good looks were reminiscent of Gilderoy Lockhart but his intelligence and honestly earned achievements quashed any further comparison to the fop that would have completely driven her away. They met at a pub near school where he launched into a discussion on wizard sex after their third round of drinks. "You've heard of tantric sex?" he'd asked her. When she had nodded, he had whispered that wizard sex was even better and he'd been practicing it.  
  
The final battle had seemed imminent in those days - and, in fact, it was - and Hermione decided that she didn't want to die having never had an orgasm at someone else's hands, as it were. With that in mind, Hermione let him take her home with the express intent of having mind-blowing wizard sex. Apparently, "mind-blowing wizard sex" meant "interminable."  
  
She rather enjoyed the kissing and fondling, but either he'd taken a prolonging potion or he had no nerve endings below the waist because he went on, pistoning into her like a pile driver, for nearly two hours straight without stopping. After the first forty-five minutes, she was chafed; halfway through the second hour, Hermione felt as though she was a stick he was using to earn his fire-starting Scout badge.  
  
Neither of these experiences had rocked her world, made her see stars, or caused the Earth to move under her feet. She had begun to wonder if there was a conspiracy afoot, propagating the myth of great sex -- a sort of "Emperor's New Clothes" for orgasms. Now, for some unknown reason, she was fantasizing about having Severus Snape, the single most despised teacher at Hogwarts, test her hypothesis. For some inexplicable reason, she was imagining him proving her fears about sex wrong. For some undeniable reason, she was certain that he could. 


	9. 9 Caught Off Guard

The rider to the usual disclaimer is this: Please accept my deepest thanks and apologies to those authors who've inspired various parts of everything I write but especially this story. Some references are more noticeable than others (FriendlyQuark, Quillusion, Shiv and "The Princess Bride" being the most obvious) but if you recognize it here as something you wrote elsewhere, what you wrote wormed its way into my psyche and has become a part of my odd little corner of reality. Anything derivative is meant only as the highest of compliments and the palest of comparisons.  
  
A quick tip of the hat to my husband - 50 House points to the first to find him. And as always, thanks and chocolate to Barrie, the bestest beta babe!  
  
Chapter 9 - Caught Off Guard  
  
The cold shower didn't help. If anything, the icy water made things worse, further brutalizing Hermione's senses. Her skin, already hypersensitive from the unexpectedly graphic thoughts of the man who had been staying with her, was now burning and the blood that had been pounding in her ears was now hammering toward a decidedly more southerly direction, leaving her even more hot and bothered than she'd been before her shower. Sighing, she dried herself and dressed to go back downstairs.  
  
The sound of his sharp gasp hit her ears just as she reached the bottom riser. Hermione's breath caught in her throat as she realized that the worst had happened - somehow, Severus had been tracked and was at the mercy of a bloodthirsty Death Eater. The terror that struck her as she grasped his situation was briefly abated by the shocking acknowledgement that she genuinely cared for him and was prepared to fight to keep him safe.  
  
Pressing her back against the wall just outside the living room, Hermione forced her mind to remember the women's self-defense techniques she'd learned at the YMCA program her parents had made her take the summer before she'd turned 15. For a moment, the normally pacifistic Hermione wished she had a loaded gun. She briefly considered getting a knife from the kitchen but decided that it would take too long and the risk of making a noise that would alert the would-be assassin to her presence was too great.  
  
Bracing herself to fight hand-to-hand with whomever was threatening Severus' safety, she prayed that Dumbledore's wards would leave the assailant as magically defenseless as she was; at least then she might have a chance to let Severus get away or even to help her turn the tables on his attacker.  
  
Stealing around the corner into the living room, she braced herself, distributing her weight evenly over her feet. If nothing else, she was determined that she would have the advantages that came with good balance and sneaking up from behind. Despite her best intentions, however, there was no way she could have been prepared for what she saw.  
  
The horror Snape felt was clearly written on his face. His eyes were widened in alarm, his mouth was agape, and his normally sallow complexion was, as impossible as it seemed, even more colorless than usual. Looking around the room, Hermione realized that there was no one else in the house with them. She was confused and moved to look over Snape's shoulder; could someone be threatening him electronically?  
  
Something was terrifying him to the point that words failed him - what she saw nearly made her laugh out loud.  
  
Apparently, he had used a search engine to look for something having to do with the keywords "adult," "romance" and "seduction." The results had obviously not been what he'd expected. The pictures on the screen - animated, no less - would not go away. He kept trying to close the windows but as was typical for such prurient websites, every time he tried to exit one, another even more explicit picture would pop up.  
  
He was panicked now, pressing keys at random. Hermione took pity on the man and reached over him, clicking on the buttons needed to exit from the internet entirely. Her elbow briefly brushed his shoulder and he jumped. Completely bewildered by his flustered demeanor, Hermione decided to investigate.  
  
Severus had been well and truly horrified at what he'd seen. Hermione was amused and intrigued at his reaction. She'd never really thought about any of her professors as anything other than . well, professors. While it wasn't a shock that he would be surprised and displeased to find something so vulgar, it surprised her that he would be this discomfited.  
  
"What about all this - precisely - disturbs you?" She asked gently, nodding at the now blissfully blank computer screen. Surely in his life he'd seen far worse. She imagined that any forty-year-old man had seen if not done more than the fairly routine acts she'd seen depicted on the computer screen; as a former Death Eater, he must have participated in worse. Why would images of sex be so distressing to a man who'd seemed so callous and uncaring in every other situation?  
  
He started at the sound of her voice. Taking a few moments to gather himself, he was able to order his thoughts somewhat, but his words bubbled out with little editing: "I am appalled that something so private is so casually discussed and thrown about. Don't these people appreciate how intimate such an act was meant to be?"  
  
She looked at him with honest curiosity. "What exactly do you mean?"  
  
He flushed and stammered. "There should be no appeal to the violence of rape and there is no art to copulation, Miss Granger." The use of her formal name caught her attention. "But to ." he seemed to struggle to find exactly the right words. "To make love is a precious - no, a sacred act. At its best, it is a beautiful sacrifice, a gift."  
  
"I'm sorry, Professor, you'll have to explain that." Hermione spoke softly but firmly. She'd realized that his reversion to formal titles gave a measure of distance that allowed him the comfort he needed to continue the discussion but she truly did not understand what was bothering him.  
  
"Any creature can reproduce, Miss Granger; there is no sophistication to the physical act itself. It is the will, the consciousness that sets us apart from our biological cousins. Seduction, if you will, in nature revolves around one partner demonstrating their attractiveness as a provider, as a mate, as a mere donator of genetic material. The idea that so many seem to think that what those pictures --" here he waved dismissively at the computer - "represent is in any way romantic is blasphemy."  
  
Hermione's brain was trying to process his comments but her thoughts were derailed by the person saying the words. Severus Snape, the universally acknowledged hater of all things amorous, the infamous hunter of snogging students and self-proclaimed enemy of the love-struck, was a dyed-in-the- wool romantic. Black wool, to be sure, but shot through with unexpected tenderness. She was fairly certain that smoke was beginning to slowly curl from her ears.  
  
Snape continued, still as unfocused as before; it was as if he were speaking to himself: "Making love means allowing yourself to become exposed and defenseless. Being that unguarded is an invaluable gift. It means inviting someone into your heart, your very soul, even knowing that you might be rejected."  
  
That was the moment when she saw him as he truly was: a vulnerable man who wanted nothing more than to be recognized. He wasn't looking for the kind of recognition a war hero would receive for his perilous work as a spy for the Order, he wasn't looking for an Order of Merlin, any class, or even looking for accolades as a teacher. Severus Snape wanted to be recognized as a man. He wanted to be seen as someone with feelings and desires, a passionate man who wanted and deserved to be desired and loved by someone.  
  
Hermione was suddenly, painfully aware of the fact that she very much wanted to be that someone. She couldn't have been any more shocked by that insight than if she'd seen Tom Riddle himself in a party hat and fishnet hose standing in her parlor.  
  
"I've never made love," she thought. It took her a moment to realize that she'd actually said the words out loud.  
  
Her voice had been soft. In fact, Severus was at first uncertain that she'd spoken at all but the combined expressions of wistfulness and outright desire on her face led him to the conclusion that he hadn't imagined her comment. Now it was his turn to be curious.  
  
"What do you mean, you've never made love?" Severus' tone was as soft as hers had been but his voice trembled ever so slightly with something undefined but sounding very much like hope.  
  
Without pausing to think, Hermione answered his unspoken question: "They were never interested in giving, they only wanted to take."  
  
Something clicked for both of them at that moment. They now saw each other in a new light. Just as with hidden picture puzzles, they were able to suddenly recognize things that had been invisible. Now that the truth was revealed, they could never be unseen again.  
  
Severus was shocked that no one had given this woman that which he knew she would treasure and - to his amazement - what he realized he wanted to give. His next thought was relief that she hadn't laughed at him as he'd spewed forth his unedited comments. If he had been forced to admit it, he would have also confessed the conflict he felt: relief that she was not completely inexperienced but disappointment that there had been others.  
  
For her part, Hermione was oddly relieved to have Severus express the very sentiment that refuted her fear that sex - no, making love - was no more special or meaningful than any other activity, like doing the grocery shopping or cooking .  
  
The Gloria Steinem-trained inner voice that had taken her best friends by their ears during their years at Hogwarts and lectured them that girls were just as smart, just as talented and just as valuable as boys suddenly panicked and began shrieking something about double standards and hypocrisy. The inner Hermione, however, stuffed a sock in the feminista's mouth. Girls were just as smart, just as talented and just as valuable as boys, but they were also undeniably girls and deserved to be treated the way girls - the way women - wanted to be treated.  
  
There was a moment of terrifying clarity when Hermione realized that Severus didn't just understand the difference between men and women; he cherished it. This was a man who would give himself, heart, body and soul, to the right woman. Hermione very much wanted to be that woman. Not a woman, not the next woman - the woman; his woman. There was nothing weak or submissive about it; she somehow knew he would subjugate himself for "his" woman as much as or even more than he expected that woman to do for him. 


	10. 10 Learning to Fly

Author's Note: I owe a very special "thank you" to Barrie for being such an invaluable beta (reading countless revisions was so far above and beyond the call, my friend!), for the quote from "Terrible Temptation" and a grateful hug - I'm glad you were able to find my inner child and kick its little . well, you know. Any time I can return the favor of pulling you from the Pit of Despair, you know where I'll be (don't worry, I'll have the phone with me!)  
  
Chapter 10 - Learning to Fly  
  
After Hermione's unwitting declaration, there really hadn't been anything Severus could think to say. "Sorry about that" seemed lacking somehow, a little too "better you than me" to his mind, and there was no way to say "Oh, really?" without sounding at best dismissive and there was an excellent chance that, given the speaker, it would sound as if he was mocking her.  
  
There was an awkward silence while both parties tried to figure out what to do next. Ultimately they did the only reasonable thing: they pretended nothing had happened.  
  
Hermione busied herself in the kitchen, ostensibly preparing for supper. The menu included stir-fried vegetables, Kung Pao chicken and shrimp lo mein so there was a great deal of chopping, grating and marinating to do but even Hermione would have had to admit that 10 a.m. was a little early to get started.  
  
She went to the kitchen to hide, to get away from Snape. This man was the master of the cutting remark, an artiste of insults. It would only be a matter of time until he launched his verbal assault; her confession of having had sex - and bad sex at that - was akin to giving him an armed and activated hand grenade. Of course, he had been behaving rather more considerately than was his wont but she'd just painted a huge bull's eye on her forehead. There was only so much temptation one person could resist, after all.  
  
As for the man in question, the supposed maestro of scorn, he was gobsmacked. The fact that Hermione Granger, a woman who had always pursued what she wanted with the kind of single-minded intensity seen only in sharks going after harbor seals, would tolerate anything less than the best stunned him. He wasn't sure what shocked him more: that she hadn't somehow forced her partners to perform to her exacting standards (he smirked at the mental image of her ordering some cowering, clumsy boy to "get it right this time") or that she seemed so resigned to having sub-par sex.  
  
Snape had to admit - at least to himself - that he wanted to change Hermione's experience when it came to that most intimate of interpersonal relations and not just as an academic courtesy. In fact, he'd typed in those accursed words at the computer this morning hoping to find some subtle but inspired means of conveying his feelings to Hermione. He hadn't lived a sheltered life by any stretch of the imagination but he had not been prepared for the visual onslaught he received. Combined with the fact that he couldn't shut the damn pictures off and was caught out to boot, he'd gotten as flustered as he ever remembered being.  
  
Unfortunately, as much as he might have liked to, offering to address her plight at the moment would be opportunistic in the extreme, ruining any chance for intimacy between them and thus treating her to more of what she'd already had. Truth be told, it was unlikely that she'd even let it get that far if he made a move now. The only physical contact he was likely to receive from such an ill-timed offer would be a slap to his face - if he was lucky.  
  
Switching off the computer, he stood slowly trying to stretch the stress of the morning out of his muscles. He let his head fall back and worked it slowly in a circle feeling the vertebrae in his neck crackle and pop back into proper alignment. After the last snap he opened his eyes, his sight falling on the third photo from the left on the middle ledge of the glass- fronted bookshelf.  
  
Something about the wizarding picture struck him but it wasn't until he moved closer that he realized what had caught his eye. It had been taken after a Quidditch match and Potter and Weasley were standing on either side of Hermione, smiling and laughing over her head as crowds passed behind them, cheering and waving. If he squinted, he could just make out the score; ah, it had been the final game their seventh year, between Gryffindor and Ravenclaw. That likely explained the reason for the picture being taken, the last game, the last victory and all; typical memory book stuff, really.  
  
What caught his eye was the tall solitary figure in black that passed behind the trio. Just before the picture ended and began again, the photographic Hermione turned and watched the illustrated Severus walk away. If he'd said anything to them as he'd passed by it had likely been something acerbic. The expression on Hermione's face as she looked away from the camera was a jumble of fading laughter, disappointment and something he wasn't quite willing to label as longing but couldn't seem to find any other word for it.  
  
Why would she turn to watch him? He closed his eyes and strained his memory to recapture the moment. Had he said something unusually rude? Why would she have even noticed him among the dozens of other people brushing past? And why did the expression on her face make him feel uncomfortable as he stood in her living room, as if he were reading her diary or watching something that he had never been meant to see?  
  
The thought that had been in the back of his mind for nearly two years was no longer the harshly repressed hope that came to him in unguarded moments; it was screaming at him now like a Molly Weasley Howler, replaying as the emotions on her face repeated in an endless loop. No matter how many theories he considered to explain her countenance, only one seemed to fit all the circumstances and it was, frankly, the last explanation he would have ever imagined. It appeared that Hermione Granger might have actually cared about him.  
  
It wasn't that he'd never been able to "get the girl" as the saying went. He may not have been a handsome man but the aura of confidence and power he'd grown into as an adult had served him well in social situations. The mysterious bad boy image helped as well; after all, he wasn't a monk, and he'd long ago discovered the allure a mysterious man in black had for an unusually large number of otherwise rational women.  
  
The doubts he had about her feelings were further minimized as he remembered the night she stood in her kitchen doorway watching him cook. He'd heard her and had known she was watching; one couldn't be a spy for over 20 years without having an unusually fine-tuned ability to sense others' presence. It was unlikely she was watching him because she didn't trust him; she'd willingly slept in an unguarded room while he'd been free to move about the house. He suddenly remembered - with great mortification - that he'd kissed her on the forehead that afternoon when he'd sent her to take that nap. The fact that she hadn't chastised him for that kiss erased any question he had: she was attracted to him.  
  
The fact that she might want him came as a surprise but not as a shock. Her intelligence, curiosity and determination had long ago marked her as a woman who would be unlikely to find a satisfactory romance with a man her own age; as someone had once said about her, "She was born forty years old." She had no peers in her age group. She had few peers in any group.  
  
Snape's attraction to Hermione had begun the summer after she completed her seventh year, when she'd worked at Number 12 Grimmauld Place, researching various non-magical ways to defeat the Dark Lord. While there had been little if any hope for finding a lethal Muggle loophole, no one wanted to risk leaving any path unexplored. Hermione applied the same intensity to her methodical and thorough search into this dry well as she did for any and every task assigned her.  
  
It wasn't her devotion to the work that had caught his fancy. He'd been on the receiving end of her obsessive drive and nearly compulsive attention to detail for seven years.  
  
That first week she'd spent doing her research at Order Headquarters, she'd chosen to enjoy what little fresh air and sunshine made it through to the run-down neighborhood, so she spent nearly every day sitting outside at a small table behind the house with all her books and parchments.  
  
As surprising as that may have been, it hadn't caused Severus to suddenly see Hermione in a new and sympathetic light. No, what had attracted him was infinitely more mundane: she'd spent that week in little more than a bikini.  
  
Severus Snape might be an incredibly powerful wizard but he was, after all, a man.  
  
It took him the rest of the morning to sort out exactly what he was going to do about all this and when the answer finally came to him, he was embarrassed at not having thought of it sooner. After all, it had been what had gotten him into trouble on the computer less than an hour ago when he had idly typed in those words. He was going to woo Hermione Granger.  
  
Right, the rational part of his mind said, you, the Greasy Git, are going to court the one person you've insulted more than anyone else on the face of the planet, save Harry Potter. Why don't we come up with something a little easier? How about a grand unified theory of time, space, matter, consciousness, and chocolate? He beat his internal voice into submission and began to develop his plan of attack.  
  
Two days later, Severus told Hermione that he was going to prepare dinner for her that night. "You've graciously allowed an uninvited guest to stay an extended time; it's the least I can do to properly thank you," he'd said brusquely, and then left her at home as he went to the grocer's.  
  
He quickly made his purchases, including champagne, a rich Australian red wine and a sparkling dessert wine. In the best of cases, the wines would be appreciated and used to toast . well, to toast. In the worst case, he would at least have something well-made to drown his sorrows and humiliation.  
  
Once Snape returned to the house, he shooed Hermione out of the kitchen.  
  
By the time dinner was served, she was both hungry and curious - ravenously so. The smells issuing from the kitchen all afternoon had been causing her salivary glands and imagination to work overtime. She fought valiantly to remember that this dinner was simply his way of saying "thank you" no matter how badly she might wish it meant something else entirely.  
  
He poured her a glass of champagne, Tattingers, and silently saluted her with his glass. Hermione took a sip and they both reveled in her enjoyment. She felt the light and flowery essence burst in her mouth with the bubbles; he watched as her cheeks flushed with the unexpected pleasure of the taste. The fact that her tongue curled over her bottom lip to capture each last bit of flavor sent his pulse into triple-time.  
  
He said nothing as he laid the oysters, still in their shells and sodden with their own liqueur, before her.  
  
She was surprised at his choice of a first course. Discounting the sexual implication of the dish - Snape would never be so obvious - she allowed herself to fully experience his selection. Hermione had always assumed that oysters would be smelly and slimy; in fact, they were an unusual combination of sweet and salty, firm and silky, visually repulsive yet oddly compelling. Even ignoring the alleged aphrodisiacal properties to the dish, she couldn't help but be aroused by the contrasting tastes and textures of the mollusks. There were only six bivalves on the plate, served au naturel, accompanied by nothing more than lemon wedges; by the time she brought the third to her mouth her hand was shaking.  
  
The next course was a simple salad of mixed greens that had been tossed with walnuts, Roquefort cheese and a strawberry vinaigrette. This straightforward dish gave Hermione a chance to regroup. Her pulse slowly returned to a more medically acceptable level and she delicately fanned herself when Severus turned away from her to clear the plates.  
  
He still hadn't said a word.  
  
The next course - the main course - was hidden in some kind of flaky pastry shell. She noticed a design in the crust and was surprised to recognize a claddagh. Of all the images she might have imagined, this traditional symbol of love, friendship and loyalty was the last she would have expected from the Head of Slytherin House, especially on something he served to a Gryffindor. Her mental processes refused to catch into gear until she decided that he must have purchased the dish ready-made; despite the remoteness of that possibility, it was easier to believe that than the implications of the alternative.  
  
Severus stood behind Hermione as he poured her wine for this dish. It was red, an Australian shiraz. Her skin tingled from his proximity; she could feel the heat from him pressing against her the way she wanted his skin to. Goosebumps raised on her as if her flesh could somehow close the gap between them. She so wanted him to touch her but as close as he got, his body never made contact. The electricity was almost unbearable.  
  
Her mouth had gone dry and she took a generous taste of the wine. The ripe berry flavors washed over her in an almost obscene flood of sensation. The smell, the feel, the taste of the wine was overwhelming.  
  
She waited until Severus was seated across from her. He raised an eyebrow and looked pointedly at her plate. Resolutely telling herself that the claddagh was simply a cliché placed incongruously on a pre-made entrée and that Snape was signaling her to begin so that he might take a taste as well, Hermione sliced into the pastry.  
  
Any thoughts she'd had about cliché disappeared when the scented steam reached her nose. She'd never before seen much less tasted one, but she knew that there was truffle in her dish.  
  
As with the oysters, she'd always been a bit squeamish about the idea of a truffle. After all, it was a fungus, traditionally harvested with the aid of a pig, and had been described in more than one cookbook as having the aroma of sex. Based on her experiences, that was hardly the kind of thing she'd even consider putting on her plate, much less tasting.  
  
She was discovering, however, that words would never do this morsel justice and if it tasted even half as indescribable as it smelled, she would be in very real danger of wanting to spend the rest of her life replicating this experience.  
  
The scent of the Beef Wellington was like nothing she'd ever known. She could identify individual aspects of it - the butter in the pastry, the sweet tenderloin, even the rich goose liver - each bringing a unique note to the perfume of the dish. Underneath all these fragrances, however, was something elemental; an earthy, powerful grace note that appealed to some unevolved part of her. The combination of all these smells was synergistic and compelling. If she'd been a cat, she would have rolled in the dish.  
  
With a start, Hermione realized that the entire meal had passed without a single word between them. While they'd had their share of uncomfortably quiet moments over the past weeks, they'd never gone on for a particularly long time. Tonight was different.  
  
Tonight had been silent but it had never been awkward. The attention that Hermione might have otherwise paid to trying to force a stilted conversation or dealing with her discomfiture had been focused on the food - and it had been nothing less than soul-stirringly exquisite. She'd had no idea that eating could be so . sensual. It was nearly sinful.  
  
By the time he served dessert - a chocolate mousse with a contrasting white crème swirled on top - Hermione was little more than a pulsing bundle of nerves; a tinderbox ready to burst into flame at the slightest spark. The delicate apricot flavored wine, a moscato d'asti, should have cooled her but served only to increase the heat in her veins.  
  
Severus had said nothing all through the meal. No explanation of what she'd been eating, no questions about her guesses as to the ingredients or even queries about the wines he'd selected.  
  
Between his silence, the menu and her long-repressed but now burgeoning desire for him, it was all she could do to sit still.  
  
She finished her mousse, licking the last tiny bit of crème from the corner of her mouth.  
  
If she hadn't seen it herself, she probably would never have believed it; as her tongue completed its reconnaissance for any bereft chocolate, she watched as Severus' eyes tracked the path her tongue made over her lips. His pupils widened as she tested her theory and re-licked her upper lip.  
  
Her hair could have burst into snakes with flaming tongues and she doubted he would have noticed, so intent was he on her mouth.  
  
Oh.  
  
Oh my.  
  
The oysters, the claddagh, the wines... they were all - it was - he -  
  
He was seducing her.  
  
This time when reality shifted for Hermione, it shifted in her favor. The man she wanted wanted her.  
  
She sat back in her chair, quietly marveling at how successfully he'd walked yet another - though certainly less deadly - tightrope. As a Slytherin and as a spy, Severus' modus operandi was stealth; dealing with a Gryffindor would require a much more direct approach. Given the friendship that had tentatively bloomed between them and despite or maybe even because of their fractious history, making his romantic intentions known to Hermione required finesse and tact. At the same time, he had to know there was a chance that his advances might be rejected and given Hermione's temper, that rejection could be painful. She was beginning to wonder if Severus had some kind of death wish that drove him to such dangerous situations.  
  
What should she think about this? What was there to think about? For one of the few times in Hermione's life, she didn't want to think, she wanted to feel. There was something confident yet subtle in this, his courting, and she knew that he would be like this when he made love to her - powerful, vulnerable, attentive - passionate.  
  
Not wanting to shatter the magic the silence had created, Hermione looked at Severus, his demeanor calculatedly neutral, and she hoped her eyes would be able to adequately express her feelings.  
  
A fleeting glimpse of surprise crossed his face, followed by a darkening in his eyes that set her heart fluttering like a bird's wings in anticipation of what was to happen next. She had never felt so alive. As a smile slowly unfolded between them, her heart no longer fluttered its wings; it soared.  
  
For those of you wondering, yes, truffles were traditionally harvested with pigs but dogs are supplanting their use, as dogs are less likely to devour the expensive delicacy. And lest you worry that I mightn't have a food- related link, here you go: http://www.epicurious.com/e_eating/e02_wintering/winterveges/truffles.html 


	11. 11 An Unexpected Bump In the Road

Chapter 11 – An Unexpected Bump in the Road  
  
Hermione worried for a moment, not knowing what to do next, until she realized that Severus had designed the evening; she would simply continue to follow his lead.  
  
He stood, silent as he'd been all night, and took slow, measured steps toward Hermione. He extended his hand to her unhurriedly, in a way that could be interpreted as either nonchalant or the manner of someone trying not to startle a skittish animal.  
  
Her hand rose to take Severus' of its own volition. His grip was firm but gentle as he led her to the living room. Turning down the lights, he moved to the stereo and started the music. The voice of Frank Sinatra singing a song Hermione didn't recognize filled the room as Severus pulled her to him, dancing in the cozy darkened room. Sinatra's voice glided effortlessly over the words:  
  
Let someone start believing in you, let him hold out his hand  
  
Let him touch you and watch what happens  
  
One someone who can look in your eyes, and see into your heart  
  
Let him find you and watch what happens  
  
Cold, no I won't believe your heart is cold  
  
Maybe just afraid to be broken again ...(1)  
  
As the song played, Hermione let the sounds of the smooth voice and blatantly sexual horns wash over her as they moved in time to the music. The upbeat rhythm of the song provided a light-handed counterpoint to the romantic words. As with everything else this night, the combination was surprising and perfect.  
  
This was a situation Hermione never in her wildest dreams imagined. Well, all right, maybe she had imagined a number of detailed seduction scenes involving her former Potions professor executed to their mutual satisfaction, but none of them ever included him cooking for her then dancing with her in her living room.  
  
The tune changed and a slower tempoed song began; she quickly recognized "Unforgettable," sung by Nat King Cole.  
  
Hermione was surprised at his selection of songs. She'd never really thought about what kind of music Severus might listen to; he'd been a teenager in the 1970s when punk and new wave began to be popular and disco reigned – and quickly died. Hermione coughed back a giggle as she imagined a teen-aged Severus Snape putting the moves on some girl with Barry White playing in the background.  
  
When they had started to dance, they'd stood ever so slightly closer than any dancing couple; now Hermione shifted herself just enough that she was tucked under his right arm, pressed fully against him. Her ballroom dance instructor would have scolded but that wasn't the teacher Hermione was interested in at the moment.  
  
Severus disengaged his left hand from Hermione's and as she stepped back, thinking they were finished dancing, he pulled her back to him with his right arm. He lifted her chin with his index finger so that her face was turned up to him as her hand fell to his waist, coming to rest on the braided leather belt he wore.  
  
Severus' eyes were focused on hers, hypnotic in their intensity. She knew absolutely what he was thinking without his saying a word. Truly, this must be what those authors meant when they wrote about being able to see into someone's soul. His gaze lazily slipped from her eyes to her lips and he looked as if he was going to kiss her. Oh, please, she thought, let him kiss me.  
  
As if he could hear her, his lips came to hers – but stopped just short of touching. For an electric moment, everything around them dropped away; there was nothing except the breath, the pulse they shared and then Hermione could stand it no longer and she stretched up to cross the tiny abyss that separated them. Her soft lips caught his in a gentle caress and her eyes closed as she lost herself in everything she was feeling.  
  
A coffee-dark voice rumbled against her lips: "Open your eyes, Hermione." She was powerless to refuse and met his dark gaze. Those four words were all he said but she understood; there would be no hiding from him tonight. The realization was overwhelming.  
  
Severus leaned into her and she bent back, not in retreat but in abandon. His strong arms held her safe and she used her hands to pull him to her. He gave himself completely to her, drowning in the sensations as her right hand played at the back of his neck, fingers weaving through the raw silk of his hair. Her other hand skimmed down his neck, over his linen-covered shoulder blade and down to the small of his back where her fingernails scratched just enough to leave faint trails across his skin but not so hard as to distract him from kissing her.  
  
And kissing her he was. As much as she'd experienced before, this was beyond anything she could have expected. There was no self-consciousness about how she looked or which way she should turn her head, no wondering how long she had to hold her breath. There was no concern that he didn't know what to do – this was beyond thought. There was nothing more than the need to taste him, to know him, to breathe him, to ....  
  
The sharp knocking at the door took several seconds to penetrate the intimate cocoon they'd begun to weave, but like an oyster borer, it inexorably broke through the couple's shell. Hermione blinked as if waking and unwillingly disentangled herself from Severus and, straightening her clothes, walked to the front door.  
  
In all honesty, they should have expected this. It had been weeks since anyone from their world had been in contact and, given the life-threatening position Severus had been in, they should have anticipated an update on the progress of tracking those that posed a danger to Snape.  
  
The reality, however, was that as they had been isolated from the magical community, they had lost themselves in their own world of daily routine, of exotic menus, of learning about each other.  
  
So when Hermione opened the door, she and Severus were completely taken aback at who was standing on her doorstep.  
  
"Well, hello Hermione, I trust you're doing well. May I come in?" Albus Dumbledore asked but he was already past the door and through the foyer into the kitchen before he'd ended his sentence.  
  
Hermione and Severus looked at each other, speechless with surprise and none too pleased with this turn of events. Hermione silently followed her former Headmaster into the only well-lit part of the house while Severus slipped into the living room to turn off the music.  
  
Hermione quickly gathered her thoughts and her composure and offered to make tea as Dumbledore settled himself in the chair nearest the door.  
  
"No, thank you child; I can only stay a short while. I was sure you would both be nearly beside yourselves with curiosity at the state of things back home." Albus was his usual ebullient self, Severus was taciturn as always and Hermione was working as hard as she could be to not appear as vexed and distracted as she felt.  
  
"What – if anything – have you to report, Albus?" Snape drawled. Hermione looked at him, prepared to see his usual bored and distant demeanor. It was a relief to see him standing behind Albus, visibly working to control expression. If she'd not been able to see him but had only heard the detached and cool tone his voice projected, Hermione would have been hurt at the idea that he could be so easily distracted from their earlier activity. The realization that Snape was just as flustered as she was gave Hermione a reassuring insight into his state of mind.  
  
Albus chuckled. "Now, Severus, no need for despair; there is actually some progress to report." Looking at the dessert dishes and wine glasses left on the table, he said, "I trust your time together isn't proving too..." he paused and raised an eyebrow at no one in particular, "troublesome?"  
  
Hermione had the good sense to clear the dishes, allowing her to hide her face from the Headmaster so that he wouldn't see her blush. Not that he wouldn't somehow know about it anyway, she thought to herself.  
  
"It's been tolerable," Severus said, sounding as bored as someone who'd been listening to an endless repetition of one of Professor Binns' lectures. "We've managed to pass the time." He dropped casually into a chair at the far side of the table which meant that Albus had to turn away from the sink in order to maintain eye contact with his Potions Master. "In fact, if you'd been a bit earlier, you could have joined us for dinner," Snape threw in nonchalantly.  
  
If he'd been a bit later, Hermione thought, I'd have gotten more than that kiss, damn it. Of course, the idea of being caught in flagrante delicto by Albus Twinkling Dumbledore didn't exactly appeal but she was beyond peeved at his unexpected visit and ignoring logic seemed the only way to justify her annoyance at someone who couldn't have possibly realized he was interrupting at such an inopportune moment. She stopped washing the wine glass in her hand, horrified that perhaps he had known exactly what he'd been interrupting. He did have that reputation for knowing everything... she decided to venture a conversational gambit to see if she could flush him out.  
  
"So, Professor Dumbledore, why haven't we heard from you before this evening?" Hermione threw out her query with the same air of casual boredom Severus had used. Severus caught her eye and she knew he understood her underlying question from the sardonic smirk that crossed his face.  
  
"Well, there really hadn't been anything to report until late this afternoon – oh! Is that a moscato? I haven't had a dessert wine since..." he trailed off as Hermione grinned at him and handed him a crystal flute. Her smile was equal parts amusement at his never-ending love for sweets and relief at the confirmation that the timing of his visit was coincidental.  
  
They waited politely as he sipped and exclaimed over the sweet and delicately bubbling wine until Severus could stand it no longer. "Albus," he prompted, "you were saying something about this afternoon?"  
  
The Headmaster appeared to be slightly distracted, not that either Hermione or Severus believed for a moment that the codger had forgotten what he'd been about to say. The question was whether he was trying to delay sharing whatever news he had because he wanted to maximize its dramatic impact or if he was hoping to catch them unintentionally saying something about how – and probably more interesting to the old man – what they'd been doing.  
  
"Ah, yes. Well, it seems that the threats to you, Severus, have been originating from a handful of loosely associated individuals. The constituency of the group is ... unexpected." Albus dropped his head slightly so that he could peer at Severus over the top of his spectacles. Hermione continued washing now-clean dishes at the sink, listening intently.  
  
Albus continued: "Interestingly, not all of them were Death Eaters. Through a loose network of informants and some surreptitious and legally questionable spell-casting, we've been able confirm the identity of those in the group. You'll not be surprised, Severus, to learn that Macnair is involved."  
  
Severus merely raised an eyebrow at the name, nodding in agreement with the Headmaster's comment. Macnair had always been jealous of the respect Snape had earned both in the Dark Lord's circle and in the academic world. Walden Macnair had managed to work his way to a reasonably high level at the Ministry but, unless one was named Minister of Magic, any such position would always be considered slightly déclassé amongst pureblooded wizards.  
  
To his advantage, Macnair's long history of respectability had served him well before he revealed his loyalty to Voldemort during that battle at the Department of Mysteries. Even now, a surprising percentage of the wizarding population refused to believe that Macnair could have been a Death Eater. It was this fact, along with a clever and particularly elaborate self-inflicted confundus charm that kept Macnair safely ensconced at St. Mungo's during that last deadly skirmish that had kept the man out of Azkaban.  
  
Dumbledore continued: "Macnair appears to have been brought in his old friend Augustus Rookwood with him. They were the parties responsible for the creating the potion used on the letter we intercepted. It was a shame that poor little owl died but if it hadn't we wouldn't have been alerted and the tonic would likely have gotten to you, my boy. The particular concoction they used wouldn't have killed you but it would have made you terribly uncomfortable. Apparently, their research, for lack of a better word, was faulty and they elected to create a potion modified from a rather obscure doxycide."  
  
"Wonderful," Severus mumbled, "I owe my life to two idiots who couldn't successfully brew a pot of tea and a rented bird."  
  
Dumbledore snorted as he watched the last drop of wine slip from the inverted bottle he held into his glass. "Yes, well, ignominious as it may be, I for one am glad that you're still with us, hale and hearty. If that owl had been just a bit faster, it probably could have managed to make it to the Head Table before its fur to feather ratio got so far out of balance as to render it aerodynamically inept. Of course, if it had, you'd be covered in black fur, as that seems to be the extent of the potion's effect."  
  
"Thank you Albus, I just finished eating; I did not need the visual digestif of remembering the new Mrs. Norris' rather graphic brunch in front of us that morning. Although I will say, for such a small owl, it did put up a valiant battle. I would have never imagined a bird that size could lift such a large cat. I trust its tail has been re-aligned?" Snape's tone was unconcerned but the crinkling around his eyes belied his good humor. "I don't think I've seen Argus as upset since that original mangy flea-bag of his was petrified in, what, your second year?"  
  
Severus' attention had been diverted to Hermione as she tried unsuccessfully to hold back her laughter at the scenario she imagined – Filch's yellow-eyed feline being given what-for by a tiny, bedraggled half bird, half...fur-covered bird.  
  
"So you've revealed two of the known perpetrators; who else have you been able to identify?" Severus had been mildly surprised that Macnair and Rookwood had taken any action of their own. For as long as Snape had known them, they'd been infamous for hanging back at any assembly before the Dark Lord, waiting for everyone else – anyone else – to tell them what to do.  
  
"Victor Crabbe, Vincent's younger brother, was apparently able to get information to Macnair and Rookwood regarding your specific whereabouts and schedule. Apparently, like his brother and father before him, this Crabbe was willing to follow anyone with an unsavory agenda."  
  
Severus sighed, any mirth left from his memory of Mrs. Norris evaporating. "Hard as it is to imagine, that boy is even thicker than his brother."  
  
There was a quiet moment before the Headmaster's voice, considerably brighter, continued: "I don't think I ever showed you the letters that came in, outlining some rather unique hexes, curses and sundry promises to harm you. Just before I left today we were able to confirm that Rita Skeeter's Quick Quotes Quill had written them. Needless to say, that should prove the final nail in her proverbial coffin. Or, should I say, the final twist to the lid on her jar?" He sent a chuckle Hermione's way and added, "I believe she's already been approached about editing the internal newsletter for the recently renovated and renamed Wizards' Azkaban Correctional Center for Incarceration."  
  
A peal of laughter was heard at the sink. "Headmaster, you can't be serious..." Hermione was nearly beside herself.  
  
"Yes, my dear, I'm afraid so. She'll be going WACCI."  
  
"Professor," Hermione finally controlled herself enough to ask, her curiosity getting the better of her, "that makes four culprits; who was the last?"  
  
At her question, Dumbledore turned to the young woman and gave her an enigmatic smile. "Ah," he began. "Therein lays my surprise for the evening."  
  
Turning back toward Snape, the Headmaster asked, "Severus, can you imagine who that fifth and final conspirator might be?"  
  
The younger man fixed an incredulous glare on his mentor. "Surely you jest, Albus. It would be easier for me to name the few individuals who might not have wished me dead. Or worse."  
  
The elderly wizard twisted in his straight-backed chair and asked Hermione, "Young lady, can you think of anyone specific who might have wanted to exact some kind of revenge on Hogwarts' Potions Master?" Something about his tone of voice caught her imagination and she grew thoughtful.  
  
After a few seconds' consideration, she said – almost to herself – "The only person I can think of who might still bear a grudge against Professor Snape is an unlikely suspect."  
  
Dumbledore nodded, encouraging her to continue. Comprehension dawned at his expectant expression.  
  
"Neville Longbottom," she breathed.  
  
Severus nearly fell from his chair.  
  
A rather stunned Hermione and Severus listened as the Headmaster explained that it had been Neville who'd orchestrated the entire scheme. It appeared – though the investigation had only just started – that Longbottom had never intended to actually harm his educational nemesis; he'd simply wanted to create a sense of dread and terror in the man who'd been Neville's personal boggart for these many years.  
  
While the Ministry had been able to apprehend Macnair, Rookwood and Crabbe, and Skeeter's arrest appeared imminent, it had been a bit trickier to bring Neville to justice. On the one hand, there was a groundswell of sympathy for him. His life had been so unhappy, beginning with the unfortunate events surrounding his parents. Combined with the stories of Severus' intolerance, a number of well-meaning citizens had begun to lobby the Ministry to pardon Neville. On the other hand, he had been responsible for convincing some distinctly unsavory characters to carry out what was essentially a campaign of intimidation against a decorated war hero. The debate was just beginning and was already quite heated. Until the political maneuvering could be sorted out, everyone seemed to think it was best if Severus stayed where he was.  
  
For a split second, Severus forgot that he was supposed to be annoyed by that suggestion. Fortunately Albus had been distracted at that moment, as he'd been trying to lure the final bit of moscato d'asti out of his crystal flute and into his mouth; he'd missed the glance Hermione and Severus had shared. Quickly controlling his emotions, Severus heaved a sigh just this side of melodrama and said, "I haven't exactly had much choice in any of this so far; I don't see why that should change now."  
  
Hermione quickly picked up on his pretended dispassion and added her similarly toned voice: "Is there any way to know just how much longer Professor Snape will have to be here?"  
  
"Children, I do understand that this is quite an inconvenience to both of you but I do think we're close to wrapping things up. I can't imagine it will take more than a week or two to sort through all the issues, and of course we'll need you back to testify, Severus. Until then, though, I'm afraid you'll have to remain sequestered here with Miss Granger." Hermione fervently hoped that the pounding of her heart wasn't audible to everyone in the room; it was certainly all she could hear.  
  
All the appropriate thanks were exchanged between the three as the Headmaster stood to take his leave. As Hermione walked him to the door, Albus took her hand and thanked her again for her willingness to play hostess to Severus. He patted her hand and whispered, "You know, Mr. Sinatra played a rather pivotal role in my courting Minerva. It's nice to know that some things haven't changed." With a wink, he was gone.  
  
Hermione stared after Dumbledore into the night for several seconds then closed the front door slowly. As she locked the door, an arm reached past her to turn out the entry light. Turning to face Severus, the bright kitchen behind him left only his silhouette and the reflection in his eyes visible.  
  
The tableau before her revealed Severus Snape as profoundly as any picture: he was a man both revealed and obscured by the light. The light he'd fought for had concealed at least as much of who he truly was as the dark ever had. Everything about him, from his coloring to his very personality, was a complicated unsolvable knot of shadow and light.  
  
Taking her hand, Severus led her back toward the silent living room. Before he could cross the threshold, she stopped. He turned to her, the light from the kitchen now illuminating half of his face. She could see confusion, embarrassment and disappointment skitter across his expression like dried leaves in a breeze and her heart ached at the realization that he would be so quick to assume rejection.  
  
Still holding his hand, she moved back and stepped up the first tread of the stair, pulling him toward her. As he moved to her, they were nearly eye to eye and she said simply, "You're tall, you know," as she brought her hands to his face and kissed him softly. His lips were still and soft for a moment as his mind sorted through what was happening.  
  
It was Hermione's turn to risk her heart now. She looked into his eyes, took his hand and led him up the stairs.  
  
(1) "Watch What Happens," written by N.Gimbel, M.Legrand, J.L.Demy 


	12. 12 Opening Night Jitters

As always, I owe a life debt to Barrie/FriendlyQuark who dries my tears, makes me laugh and offers unending encouragement.  
  
Chapter 12 – Opening Night Jitters  
  
He stopped just short of the landing at the top of the stairs and pulled her to him. As before, she was nearly able to look him in the eye but this time it was Severus' turn. Holding her by the waist, he kissed her softly, almost innocently. Almost.  
  
As gentle as his manner was, Hermione could feel the intense attraction. The pull behind her navel was oddly reminiscent of traveling by portkey with the addition of somehow setting her already heightened senses at an almost unbearable intensity.  
  
Everything she touched – the softly starched linen of his shirt lightly rubbing under her fingertips, the smooth cotton of his slacks that just barely touched her legs as he moved, the familiar woolly textured pile of carpet under her bare toes – seemed magnified in its impact on her skin.  
  
Hermione was suddenly nervous. As if he could sense it, he pulled back just enough to get her attention and, fixed her with an intense look.  
  
"There is no reason to be anxious, Hermione. This isn't a contest; you won't be graded or compared." She laughed, despite her tension. "First of all, nothing is going to happen that you – and I – don't want to happen. There is to be no pressure on either of us to do anything."  
  
Hermione heard Snape's words, but she had already convinced herself of what was going to occur tonight and told herself that she had better be damned good after all the work he'd gone to for her.  
  
"And if I think for one moment that you are doing this because you feel beholden in any way, whether to me or to some challenge you've issued to yourself, you will find yourself very much alone for the remainder of the evening."  
  
That got her attention. After silently cursing herself for being so transparent and then sending the same quiet hexes at him for knowing what she was thinking, she wondered if perhaps she'd read everything wrong; maybe he had only been saying "thank you" after all and he didn't really have those kinds of feelings for her. Maybe he was trying to brace her for a gracefully subtle brush-off...  
  
For the third and final time that evening, Severus Snape read Hermione like a cheap comic book and pulled her up to the top step. Wrapping his arms around her, he held her close. After a long moment, she felt his voice rumble quietly against her. "We have all the time in the world, Hermione. I want you – make no mistake about that – but your body is only part of that. If you're not comfortable sharing all of you, then you need to tell me now. There is no place here for half-measures or insincerity."  
  
'How many times in one night can this man amaze me?' Hermione thought to herself. She somehow both relaxed and straightened at his words and threw away whatever preconceived ideas she'd already had about him, about herself, and about what the rest of the night would bring.  
  
Pulling back from his embrace so that she could meet his eyes, she said calmly and with all the honesty in her heart, "I want you, Severus. Nothing else, just you. I've shown you more of myself than anyone else has ever seen. We've talked about subjects that I barely wanted to consider much less discuss, yet I can't imagine not talking about them with you. I've already trusted you with my heart. How could I not want to share the rest?"  
  
The reward of his smile was more than she could have hoped to receive. The hammering of her heart was no longer caused by her anxiety but by the rare open warmth in his eyes. He let his grasp slide down her arms and as he wove the fingers of one of his broad hands with her much smaller hand, he opened the door to his room.  
  
She giggled and he looked askance at her. "I wondered if it was going to be your place or mine..." she smiled.  
  
"While this may not be exactly 'my' territory," he responded dryly, nodding across the hall to her door, "I don't think I'm quite ready for a single bed and a shelf full of stuffed animals for an audience."  
  
Her laughter rang down the stairwell as the bedroom door closed behind her.  
  
Once inside the room, he switched on the small lamp on the bedside table. The soft light that filtered through the trumpet-shaped mica shade washed the room in a warm glow. The room smelled like him – clean with a spicy undertone and something indefinably masculine that made her feel aroused, soothed and safe all at the same time.  
  
She watched as he slowly moved towards her. Every step he took increased the volume of the heartbeat in her ears. His eyes hadn't left hers since he'd switched on the lamp on the far side of the bed and she felt the blush in her cheeks deepen under his fiery gaze.  
  
There was no fear, just an arousing awareness that the legendary powers of concentration he applied to his potions were now fully focused on her. She felt rather like an ant caught under the pinpoint of white-hot sunlight that was being passed through a magnifying glass. She was sure to burst into flame if something didn't happen.  
  
As Severus moved to stand before her, Hermione had been unable to look away from him and she had had to lift her chin to keep eye contact. He stepped to within a small handspan of her and her lips parted at the last tilt of her head. That was the spark to dried tinder – he swept her into a kiss that was a dizzy combustion of passion.  
  
His taste was complex, like the best chocolate: dark, bitterness balanced by just enough sweet. It was compelling.  
  
She was breathless with the realization that he had been entirely right about there being 'no place for half-measures or insincerity.' Everything he felt was there in his embrace and had she not already loved him she would have had to run for cover.  
  
Well. That was an unexpected realization.  
  
She loved him. She wasn't infatuated and she was not in love with some romanticized version of him – she doubted even the most gifted imagination could soften his edges that much. No, she loved this sarcastic, perceptive, brilliant, sensitive, demanding, unattractive, beautiful man. Hermione Granger loved Severus Snape, sitting in the tree K-I-S-S-I-N-G. Her thoughts stopped just short of the next line but only because the electric jolt of feeling his mouth opening against hers completely short- circuited any conscious thought.  
  
The small sound of arousal she made in the back of her throat didn't register in his ears but instead shot directly to the base of his spine. The gasp he gave in response thrilled her more than she could say.  
  
Before they could be swept away by their bodies' desires, Severus grasped Hermione's shoulders gently and pulled back to look at her, fighting to bring his now-ragged breathing into a more regular pattern.  
  
"Hermione, you must understand," he began hesitantly. Funny, it was the first time she'd ever heard him speak in any tone other than one of complete confidence; even when being derisive or sarcastic, his tone had always been eminently certain. "The books you might have read, the films you may have seen – they aren't ..." he was searching for a word; his eyes snapped to hers when he found it. "They aren't real. Making love isn't some abstract, stylized fantasy; it's real. It's not about seeing visions of fireworks or the like."  
  
Hermione looked at the man who could pass for an anemic Jeremy Irons standing before her and it took her a moment to recognize the sentiment that looked so out of place on his face.  
  
"Yes, I recognize the irony of my suddenly being nervous," he grumbled. "I'm just not entirely sure what you might be expecting and given the rather long anticipation..."  
  
As comprehension bloomed over her face, Snape relievedly chastised himself for having doubted whether she would understand.  
  
"Severus, I know how you like your tea, which sections of the paper you read first, that you like Monty Python even though you pretend not to, and that when you get really tired the muscle beneath your left eye twitches the tiniest bit. I know so much about you but I want to know more. I want to learn what your skin feels like against mine and what you look like when you make love to me. I want you, Severus. So much..."  
  
The last of her words were spoken against his lips as she showed him what she felt but couldn't yet say.  
  
Hermione shrugged her shoulders out from Severus' grasp and brought her hands to his chest, gently pushing him back until he came to the edge of the mattress, continuing until he dropped rather inelegantly onto the quilt- covered bed.  
  
As she moved to stand between his legs, she brought her hands to his face. He closed his eyes in surrender to the warmth of her delicate touch against his cheeks. Hermione ran a thumb over the lips that were so frequently drawn into the thin line of his trademark sneer but were now relaxed and slightly parted. The heated breath that whispered over her finger raised gooseflesh across her skin.  
  
She could feel the muscle in his jaw clench and release under her other hand and she moved even closer to him. As she bent her head to kiss along where she'd felt the tension, he sighed low and deep, causing her knees to buckle slightly.  
  
His hands held her steady, settling at her waist and then slowly, surely, he flexed his fingers, pleating her lightweight cotton shirt up and out from the grip of her khaki shorts. As the shirt came free, his fingers began a sure and slow a trek up her body.  
  
In her previous sexual forays, she'd always kept her eyes tightly closed, hoping to lose herself in the sensations. She was surprised to realize that she not only didn't need to shut out the visual stimulation of this moment, she craved it. The subtle flickers of emotions she recognized for the first time as they danced across Severus' face – passion, hope, desire, and so much more – held her entranced.  
  
"Severus," she breathed. "You are so beautiful..."  
  
His attention had been completely focused on her and he knew that she was, as was her habit, speaking before considering her words. In the past, this had driven him to fury but tonight it was the very balm his soul needed. She was telling him the unvarnished truth.  
  
Severus' hands continued their inexorable journey, tracing the curve of her generous hips to her dainty waist and up to the middle of her ribcage. She wondered briefly if he might be dismayed by the disproportionate dip he had traced – she always meant to exercise but it was too easy to defer in favor of her more sedentary habits. The look on his face released her from any self-consciousness about her figure: Severus Snape was spellbound.  
  
Severus' hands ran into the cotton and wire barrier of her bra; his fingers stopped their journey and she arched an eyebrow at him. He chuckled quietly and with a deft movement, unhooked the garment and traced his fingers along the thin band of material that ran over her shoulders, pushing the straps down. As the brassiere's straps fell, Severus pulled Hermione's shirt up over her head. He looked on her as if she were okenite – too hard a breath might shatter the delicate beauty before him.  
  
Needing to feel him against her, Hermione began unbuttoning his linen shirt. Her fingers began chasing the buttons through their woven holes until she had liberated all the mother-of-pearl discs. A breathed "ah!" left her lips at the last button's release and she smiled down on him, her eyes shining delight at the expanse of ivory skin revealed when she pushed the finely woven cloth from his shoulders.  
  
With a whisper-soft touch, she slid her lips down his neck then followed his clavicle across to the point of his left shoulder. As her lips trailed lower, she bent, allowing her breasts to fill his hands. The warmth of her mouth, the silk of her hair, the weight of her breasts were beginning to cause short-circuiting in his brain.  
  
"Oh, Hermione," he groaned, his voice raw as ripping silk. Never before had she appreciated her name but after tonight no sobriquet would ever be acceptable.  
  
Severus' arms wound round her, pulling her hard against him. His lips parted as he gasped for breath; as his eyes focused on the undeniably feminine curves before him, he moved to lose himself in the taste of her flesh, of her breast, of her nipple. She was beautiful and he wanted to worship every part of her.  
  
Pulling Hermione down to the bed to lie beside him, Severus quickly twisted so that he would be over her. In the same motion, he brought his hands up under her arms and smoothly pulled her to the center of the bed as if she weighed no more than a pillow. Dragging his hands down over her breasts made the pressure between his legs spike; oh, how he wanted her.  
  
Hermione either sensed his thoughts or she felt the same need – her hands fell to the placket on his pants. It took her a moment to reverse and invert the fastenings in her mind; her fumbling finally released Severus from the fabric constraints. As his flesh unfurled towards her, her eyes widened and she licked her lips. He turned for the briefest time, just long enough to pull off his pants, shorts and socks. As he bent away from her, Hermione whimpered her desire for the beauty he presented.  
  
At the sound of her appreciative groan, he turned back to her, fingers flying to her waistband. He pulled at her shorts, dragging them over her hips, leaving her exposed before him. His expression was equal parts raw hunger, adoration and something that looked amazingly like the kind of frustration one might have when was forced to choose just one flavor of ice cream from a multitude of favorites.  
  
By all rights, she should have been self-conscious under his speculative and slightly predatory gaze but something about this man and this night removed any concern that her body wasn't the bastion of youthful perfection that fashion magazines told her it should be. She felt wanton and relished it. She arched her back and nearly purred at the look on his face.  
  
Severus was completely bewitched by Hermione's willingness to give herself to him. Her openness fueled his desire and his heart seemed to stretch with the knowledge that the woman he loved was so comfortable giving herself to him.  
  
Well. That was an unexpected realization.  
  
He loved her. She wasn't perfect by any stretch – not that he had much of an imagination when it came to such things, but he doubted any other woman could suit him so well. He loved this perceptive, brilliant, sensitive, quarrelsome, imperfect, beautiful woman. And he wanted to lose himself completely in her.  
  
They were, now, finally skin to skin. Hermione delighted in the abrasion of the sparse hairs scattered over his chest against her flesh; Severus reveled in the varying textures of her – the tensile resistance of her nipples, the riot of dark floss that was her hair, the warm satin of her skin.  
  
Hermione's hands were restless, pulling him on top of her. He let his fingers skip over the soft skin of her waist, down her hip, to the top of her thigh. His touch danced over her sides, her shoulders, her breasts, her back, her buttocks – oh, he needed this woman.  
  
Severus bowed his head and caught Hermione's lips beginning a long series of kisses. They explored, soothed, and tasted each other with an intensity borne of long-repressed emotion. The gasp Hermione gave when he nipped the velvety skin at the junction of her jaw, neck and earlobe was returned to her by Severus when she lightly scraped his earlobe with her teeth.  
  
As they kissed, she restlessly shifted against him, opening herself and brushing his erection with her thigh. The resulting shudder started at his feet, moved over his legs, up his spine and through his arms to her. Hermione shivered in his embrace and whimpered her need.  
  
His hand had slipped down almost automatically to the brittle hair covering what was quickly becoming the pulsating center of her existence. Severus was very aware of the magnetism that seemed to pull his fingers lower. Sowing petal-soft kisses over her face, he let his hand follow its own path. When he found the source of her molten heat, his fingers began to softly strum her throbbing flesh. Dipping his fingers deeper, her slickness welcomed him.  
  
He groaned against her neck, the vibrations from his voice raising the fine hairs on her skin. When he whispered to her, she knew she was lost. "So soft ... wet ... beautiful," he murmured, setting his fingers to a rhythm against her.  
  
Letting her responses guide him, Severus' touch began gently but he increased the pressure as she gasped her encouragement. As his touch grew firmer, Hermione grew wilder in her kisses, her hands relentlessly sweeping over him. He made sure she couldn't reach the one part she most wanted to touch – not because he didn't want the contact but because he knew he would never be able to withstand such pleasure.  
  
As he slipped first one, then two fingers into her, Hermione's muscles clenched round him, her hips lifting her against his hand. She wasn't even aware that she'd said anything but her words were pure electricity to him: "Oh, love..."  
  
If he'd been any more aroused, he could have split diamonds. For a moment, everything was pure and crystalline – the expression on her face, the passion reflected in his eyes, the reverberating pulse they shared. But where a crystal might shatter with a change in the atmosphere, the shift in awareness here only intensified the moment.  
  
It wasn't enough; holding each other, even with no clothing between them, wasn't enough. He needed to be closer still, she needed more of him. He could see the wanting on her face and he shifted himself, fitting against her and marveling at the way the disparity in their height seemed inconsequential now.  
  
She lifted her hips against him, bringing the head of his throbbing length to her satin-soft opening. Looking at him, she let the wonder of all she felt wash over her and prayed he could see it.  
  
"Hermione," he whispered, his face close to hers. "I..."  
  
His words were lost in her kiss as he plunged himself into the cocoon of her.  
  
For all he'd wanted this to be a relaxed, slow love-making, there was no way that either of them could restrain themselves. She flexed, trying to pull him as deeply into her as she could. He ground his hips against her and the friction sent a tremor of pleasure coursing through her body in ever-widening circles.  
  
He dragged his tongue up the tendon at the side of her neck, ending at her earlobe. Her hands continued their restless journey over his skin, scratching, soothing, gripping. Skimming her hands over his flesh to his chest and up his neck to the back of his head, she pulled him down for another kiss – she didn't think she could ever get enough contact with him.  
  
As if he heard her thoughts, he whispered, "I can't get close enough... I want more of you, all of you." His voice was graveled with passion and he shifted his weight, hooking her legs over his arms. Sinking even deeper into her welcoming flesh, they both groaned their pleasure.  
  
The huskiness in Hermione's voice spurred him to an almost reckless pace, driving into her as though he could somehow fuse himself to her. He could feel the pressure building almost to the point of release but stopped himself just short.  
  
The tension on his face was evident and beautiful. As Severus was distracted trying to regain his control, Hermione took advantage and twisted her hips enough to force him to his back but not enough to lose their connection.  
  
Taking a moment to savor the surprise on his face, Hermione sat straddled over him and rocked her hips slowly. The sultry smile she wore was a vision etched into his mind; she was stunning in her power and beauty.  
  
Leaning forward, she licked a path up his neck in an echo of his earlier action. As her weight shifted forward, his hardened length seemed to fill her in a completely different way than before. She rocked her hips experimentally, then gasped, "Oh yes, right there... Sweet – love, please... Ah!" Two more rocks and the coil of tension that had been winding in her belly suddenly released, throwing her into a warm darkness that was nothing but sensation.  
  
The undertow of her orgasm dragged Severus into that same ocean of release. As her muscles clamped round him, he lost awareness of everything except the velvet vise contracting around him as he pulsed.  
  
About the same time that Hermione realized the pounding she was hearing was Severus' heart, he became aware that some of the trembling he felt was a shiver from the woman strewn across his chest.  
  
The bedclothes were tangled all around them. Moving as little as possible, he reached for a corner of something – no, that was a pillow; he grabbed something else that felt like a quilt – and pulled it over the two of them. When Hermione made to move off him, he turned enough so that she could curl around him as he enfolded her in his arms.  
  
Mentally holding his breath – he was fairly certain that she'd enjoyed everything, but what if it hadn't been all she had wanted? – he looked down at the woman who was now lazily drawing designs across his chest. Sensing his gaze, Hermione tilted her head and looked at him shyly.  
  
Her face was covered in flushed splotches, her hair was a rat's nest of tangles and knots and there was a sheen of perspiration across her forehead. She looked beautiful and he told her so. She suspected that any one else would have a decidedly different opinion but at that moment, no one else's opinion mattered. She kissed him soundly and snuggled back into the comfort of his arms, drifting into sleep listening to the lullaby of his steady breathing.  
  
Author's Notes:  
  
For those who ain't from 'round here (i.e., the Midwestern United States), the schoolyard taunt would have gone like this, in the most annoyingly sing- song tone humanly possible: 'Mione & Sev'rus / Sitting in a tree / K I S S I N G / First comes love / Then comes marriage / Then comes baby in a baby carriage. And you wonder why I'm warped...  
  
O.K., so I really wanted to have Hermione make a mental comparison to the man JKR wanted to and happily IMHO, the man that did play Snape (i.e., Alan Rickman), but that's been SO done and I have to say that Jeremy Irons does look more like the way Snape is described in the book. I would have loved to have seen him in BBC1's "Harry Potter and the Chamberpot of Azerbaijan" but, alas, we didn't get it on this side of the pond.  
  
Okenite can be found in Ireland, among other locations, and for some reason that resonated. For a more technical description of this mineral, here's a completely inedible link: http://mineral.galleries.com/minerals/silicate/okenite/okenite.htm 


	13. 13 All Good Things

Chapter 13 – All Good Things  
  
The dream that had begun so promisingly suddenly became annoying.  
  
It had been wonderful to talk with Harry and Ron again. Having them on either side of her as they sat at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall reminded her of their happiest school days. In her dream, they had been telling her what a great couple she and Snape made – that was how she knew it was a dream – and then Harry had asked her what she was going to do with the rest of her new life. When she didn't answer right away, the boys began drumming their fingers impatiently on the table, prodding her for an answer. The noise continued until she turned to scold them.  
  
It was then that Hermione awoke to realize that the sound was not stopping.  
  
Hedwig was tapping on the window. The reflection of the full moon on the bird's white feathers gave her an almost ethereal glow, as if the owl were more spirit than animal. For one disoriented moment, Hermione thought that Harry must be sending her a message from wherever his soul was.  
  
Then she remembered. After Harry's death, Hedwig had refused to leave Hogwarts. The snowy owl had refused food from everyone except the Headmaster, Hermione and Hagrid. There had been a short period when Hagrid had believed that only people whose names began with the letter H could handle the bird (apparently forgetting that Dumbledore's name wasn't actually "Headmaster"), but when Professor Hooch nearly lost a finger trying to feed the ailing owl, everyone acknowledged that the bird had simply chosen her parliament and would accept no one else.  
  
Carefully disentangling herself from the comfortable knot of Severus' arms, Hermione threw the dress shirt Severus had worn that day over her naked body and opened the window, letting in a wave of thick summer humidity along with the owl.  
  
She affectionately welcomed Hedwig. The bird seemed to be just as pleased to see Hermione, closing her great round eyes and giving a soft hoot as Hermione scratched her feathers in the best approximation of preening a human could give.  
  
After a few silent moments of Hermione's attention and Hedwig's affectionate nips, Hermione removed the small piece of parchment that had been bound to the bird's leg. Hermione whispered, "I've got some bacon downstairs, will you wait for me to get it?"  
  
Hedwig gently rubbed her beak against the end of Hermione's nose and blinked slowly. If Hermione weren't so vehemently opposed to anthropomorphism, she would have said that the bird was apologizing; Hedwig turned and silently winged her way back into the inky midnight.  
  
Unrolling the parchment, Hermione was surprised to find that there was no addressee or other indication of who the note was for. As soon as she'd finished reviewing the brief message, she wished she hadn't woken at all.  
  
The note was from Albus Dumbledore. The threat to Severus' safety was over; he was free to return to Hogwarts.  
  
By rights, she should have been relieved. Severus was safe now; they could both get on with their lives with no fear of attack on the Potions Master. So why did she feel so bereft?  
  
Well, that was a rhetorical question, she admitted to herself. Hermione knew precisely why she didn't want Severus to leave.  
  
No one in her life had ever challenged her, infuriated her, excited her, comforted her, or understood her like the dour and dark man who had lived in her house – her parents' house – for the better part of the summer.  
  
As incredible as the four days since Albus' visit had been (and she flushed at the memory of just how amazing it was), the intimate turn their relationship had taken had been a natural outgrowth of the friendship they had developed first. If they hadn't genuinely come to care for each other, there would have never been anything physical between them.  
  
Now it was coming to an end.  
  
There was little choice in the matter. Even if Severus might have been willing to stay with her – and that was a big "if" – it was already the end of July; there would be no time for Albus to find an acceptable substitute instructor for Potions classes much less a new Head of House before the school term started September 1st.  
  
Sighing to herself, Hermione left the scrap of parchment on the dresser, pulled Severus' shirt off and walked back over to the bed that was washed in the silvery cool light of the moon.  
  
Snape had rolled to his back and Hermione crept under the covers to take what had become her favorite sleeping position: lying on her left side, head cradled in the gentle swale between his shoulder and chest, right leg draped over his thigh, her hand free to stroke the pale skin that seemed to call to her. She sighed and tried to quiet her mind in preparation for sleep.  
  
The first two nights they'd slept together – once they were actually ready to sleep – they had both woken each time the other had moved. The novelty of sharing a bed had made each sigh, turn and twitch impossible to ignore. Finally the exhaustion wrought by their less somnolent bedtime activities, combined with their frequent waking once they did fall into sleep, overtook them and by their third night together, the couple wouldn't have heard the Hogwarts Express passing through the room.  
  
Hermione forced her mind to focus on the slow and hypnotically rhythmic breathing of the man beside her; she finally began to slowly relax. Just as she felt the soft fuzz of sleep stretch over her, a low rumbling vibrated under her ear: "That old man is getting tiresome."  
  
"You know about Albus' message?" Hermione whispered, surprised and disappointed at his comment.  
  
"It wasn't hard to figure out; he's the only one who knows I'm here and the only way he would send an owl would be if the – how would he put it? If the coast were clean."  
  
Hermione reached over and turned on the small bedside lamp. It didn't seem that they would be going back to sleep any time soon.  
  
"Clear," she corrected without thinking. "It's 'the coast is clear.' So I guess you have to go back..."  
  
If it hadn't been for the sound of her voice catching, Severus would have assumed that Hermione wanted him to go. The slight tremor in her words, however, gave him the encouragement he needed to ask the question foremost on his mind. "Do you want me to leave?"  
  
There are times when life is perverse, when misplaced emotions or bad timing prevents people from saying what needs to be heard or keeps necessary connections from being made. Even if it turns out later that everything worked out for the best, these missed opportunities are brutal and painful. Fortunately, this was not one of those times. Neither Hermione nor Severus could tolerate the uncertainty that would doubtless accompany a hedged or careful response. As a result, Hermione blurted out something she would never have dreamed of saying under any other circumstances: "No, I want you to stay. Here, with me."  
  
The words hung in the air. To Hermione, the sound of her voice echoed in her head, growing ever louder, until it seemed she'd shouted the words. To Severus, her whisper had been like a soft rain over parched ground.  
  
He gently tipped her chin up to kiss her only to see the threat of tears in her eyes. Twenty years of habit were difficult to break; his conditioned response to the stimulus of crying had always been a sneer and sarcastic comment. He couldn't suppress the smirk but he caught himself before saying anything, choosing instead to kiss her softly.  
  
"I don't want to leave," he sighed as he kissed her forehead. Hermione's eyes closed and tears of anguish dissolved into tears of relief as they slipped from under her lids to meander down her cheeks.  
  
"You don't want to, but..." she prompted, wrestling with the bittersweet happiness of knowing he would stay if he could. That would just have to be enough until they were able to be together. If and when that time ever came.  
  
"But what?" Severus had shifted in the bed and was now leaning over her, brushing his lips down the column of Hermione's throat.  
  
Hermione's voice picked up a decidedly husky note when she responded. "But you have to go back."  
  
"Mmm..." He tickled her collarbone with his mouth, pausing only long enough to murmur, "Do I?"  
  
"Yesss," Hermione was having difficulty concentrating as Severus' mouth slowly wandered over the swell of her breasts, leaving criss-crossing patterns of kisses over them and teasing all around but not touching her nipples. "You do. Ummm ... don't you? Ohhhh...."  
  
Severus finally let his tongue flick against the hard pebble of flesh in the center of her areola. The sound of her breathing was loud enough that she nearly missed his response.  
  
"Well, no actually," he whispered into the fleshy valley between her breasts and then began nibbling a path down her stomach.  
  
The anticipation of Severus' ultimate destination had held Hermione's complete attention thus explaining the uncharacteristic delay before she responded to his comment.  
  
"What!?" Hermione sat bolt upright, nearly knocking Severus out of the bed and causing him a mild case of whiplash. "What do you mean, 'no, actually?' How can you not have to go back to Hogwarts?"  
  
"I am no longer officially a teacher at Hogwarts." He might as well have been telling her the properties of a bezoar, his tone was so nonchalant.  
  
Over his life, Severus Snape would remember – vividly – the few times he was able to shock Hermione Granger into stupefied silence. This particular moment would always be the high-water mark in his memory and he treasured it. She was speechless for nearly 2 full minutes.  
  
"How? What happened? Did Albus sack you? Did you quit? When? Why?"  
  
Severus sighed melodramatically at the sudden re-emergence of the silly little girl from so many years ago and leveled his most fearsome Evil Professor scowl at Hermione. Granted, it was rather difficult to concentrate when the recipient of his trademark glare of a thousand painful deaths was gloriously nude and flushed with arousal.  
  
A chagrinned Hermione took a deep breath which caused Severus' scowl to suddenly realign itself about a foot south of her eyes. She calmed herself before she started again. "Sorry. What happened?"  
  
His eyes refocused on hers and he said, "It's all right; I probably shouldn't have surprised you like that. I tendered my resignation at the end of the last school year."  
  
Holding up a hand to forestall any additional rapid-fire questioning, he continued. "I have never particularly enjoyed teaching, shocking as that admission may be for you to hear." He arched an eyebrow at Hermione. "However, it was, at the time, the best solution to a great many problems, not the least of which being the ability to pass information regarding the Death Eaters' plans and activities to the leader of the Order without raising undue suspicion.  
  
"Once the Dark Lord was finally and unquestionably gone, I decided to put an end to my unfortunate and patently ill-suited vocation. Albus – thankfully – didn't utter a word trying to dissuade me. I'm certain he will be quite happy to never have to field another student or parent complaint about my pedagogical methods."  
  
At this, Severus paused and looked at Hermione's shocked expression. Her eyebrows were carets and her lips were shaped into a nearly perfect "O." Before his imagination could run away with the possibilities of that expression, he continued to explain.  
  
"I was to stay at Hogwarts this summer at Albus' request. He asked me to help orient the new Potions instructor but I strongly suspect that his real reason for having me stay on was that he knew I didn't really have any firm plans for my future. Nor did I – do I – have a place to live."  
  
"What are you going to do?" Hermione asked, having finally found her voice.  
  
"I have some acquaintances – no, not that sort, the more upstanding professional kind – who have been after me for quite some time to join them in the development of commercial potions. I must admit, I'm attracted to the idea of research with state of the art facilities and no annoying dunderheads to interrupt my work. Well, no classrooms filled with dunderheads anyway. I am aware that adults are not precluded from being obstinately stupid simply because they are older but at least I have the hope of limiting my exposure to thick-headedness to a few individuals rather than confronting it en masse every day for nine months of the year. Besides, it would be so much more satisfying to hex a fully empowered witch or wizard, someone who runs the risk of accidentally being able to defend and counter my attack. Hexing children is rather unsportsmanlike; the proverbial shooting of fish in a barrel. There's no challenge, no finesse to it."  
  
Hermione was suddenly hit with the realization that Snape's sarcasm was a decidedly sexy part of the total package. That the talent of his tongue wasn't restricted to his repartee no doubt played a part in her realization but the fact remained that she was unquestionably attracted to his snarkiness. Whether it was because his attitude was almost overpoweringly confident or (as she suspected) because he had no compunction about expressing the very sentiments she herself had, there was no doubt that his scornful diatribe set off tingles through her. If she'd had knickers on, they'd be wet.  
  
Hmm, that bore thinking on.  
  
No, that bore acting on.  
  
"Well, Professor," she said, giving emphasis to his soon-to-be former title, "it seems I interrupted your research. Far be it from me to stand in the way of a man's search for advanced knowledge and awareness." While speaking, Hermione laid back and stretched to turn off the light.  
  
A large hand stopped her as she reached for the lamp; "Leave it," he growled. "I want this to be ... an illuminating experience for all concerned." His dark eyes flashed causing her nipples to tighten.  
  
Picking up where he had been so unceremoniously interrupted – somewhere just around Hermione's naval, as he recalled – Severus kissed his way from that point down to the first curl he encountered. He then detoured down her left hip to mid-thigh and tasted his way across that leg to the other and back up again, licking his way in an ever tightening spiral until his mouth was poised over the bull's eye of her arousal.  
  
He was more than talented when it came to his tongue, she decided; he was gifted. Hermione thought she would faint when he first fluttered his tongue across the knotted bundle of nerves he found. He added his fingers to the equation next, stroking the soft skin between her legs, then plunging into her and she went from being light-headed to being conscious of nothing but the sensations he wrought in her. The sudden release he triggered was incredible yet once she recovered, she found herself craving more.  
  
"Severus – now," was all Hermione could pant out; it was all he had to hear. He was beginning to shake with need; when he finally did thrust himself into her, they both had to pause to catch their breath and regroup. He briefly rested his forehead against hers before taking her mouth in a way that was both completely possessive and entirely self-sacrificing. Her last coherent thought was of how beautifully they fit together and then her body broke through the tension that had been steadily building inside her and then she was nothing more than ripple of released energy in an infinitely black pool. 


	14. 14 Where the Heart Is

**Chapter 14 – Where the Heart Is**

She wasn't fully awake but she knew he was not there.  Not just away from the bed or the room, but gone.  He had left her.

The emotions hit her physically, as if she'd been punched in the gut -- sucker punched, to be precise, as there'd been no hint of this coming.  The feeling was definitely one of having been on the wrong end of a bludger.  First there was the inability to breathe, then nausea, and finally a throbbing pain in her belly that seemed to feed on itself, forcing her attention to it and intensifying the more she thought on it.

And she hadn't even opened her eyes yet.

Her pain and embarrassment existed on so many levels that it was hard to piece out exactly what her primary feeling was.  The thoughts careening through her mind were a Jackson Pollock montage of her deepest fears – that she'd been too needy, she'd been an incompetent lover, she'd snored, she'd been too pushy, that she'd been too … too Hermione.

Her body finally demanded that she attend to some rather basic functions, regardless of the debilitating blow her ego and heart were suffering.  As she slowly opened her eyes, the beauty of the sunrise utterly mocked her emotional state and then she saw it.

It would have been difficult not to see the parchment; it was floating about a foot in front of her face.

With the passing of the danger to Severus, the anti-magic wards were no longer needed.  She thought idly that Dumbledore must have been able to cancel the charms from a distance.  The idea that he might have been in the house last night while Severus and Hermione were being intimate was not a thought her already frazzled nerves would allow her mind to consider.

Knowing that the note was likely some pathetic brush-off and apology from Severus, Hermione made to snatch it from the air so she could burn it but as she grabbed for it, the parchment jumped back from her hand.  She tried again – several times – each with the same result.  Her curiosity finally got the better of her and she slowed her motions, now intrigued.  This time, the letter allowed itself to be caught.

_Hermione,  _

_Before you foolishly convince yourself that I have left you for any reason other than dire emergency, please do me the kindness of reading all the way through this note.  I trust your unstoppably inquisitive nature will ensure that my meager request is met._

Hermione caught her breath at first and then rolled her eyes.  Only Severus could manage to perfect snarkiness on paper.

_I am currently at St. Mungo's attempting to calm a distraught Neville Longbottom – something I'm sure no one ever imagined, least of all Longbottom or myself.  Once the situation has stabilized I will come home, assuming you haven't already thrown my possessions into the street, and will try to patiently endure the infinite questions that have doubtless already begun forming in your mind._

_S_

Completely chagrinned at her initial and blessedly incorrect assessment of the situation, Hermione re-read the note several times, each review bringing a different set of emotions to the fore.

First, there was an odd mix of embarrassment and pleasure that Severus was able to accurately predict her reaction upon waking to find him gone.  There was also a bit of annoyance at his foreknowledge that there would indeed be a number of questions she wanted to ask.  Then there was her concern about why Severus was at St. Mungo's, why Neville was involved precisely, and what he meant by stabilized.

She took a small measure of comfort in the fact that she hadn't pitched his clothes out the front door but that was more a function of the early hour – she hadn't thought of it yet.  Of course, the fact that he had left his clothing should have been a clear indication that he hadn't turned tail and run from her; on the other hand, she likely would have been too angry to realize that before scattering his wardrobe all over the lawn.

Most importantly, though, was the way her heart jumped at that one unassuming little phrase, the one she'd missed the first time she had read the note: "I will come home."

He thought of this – her house, her bed, her arms – as home.

Feeling rather like a prisoner who'd been expecting the Dementor's kiss but found herself unexpectedly set free, Hermione slid from the bed and sauntered to the bathroom.  After taking care of her more immediate needs, she washed her hands, brushed her teeth and started her shower.

Hermione let her mind wander as she automatically performed her daily routine.  Eventually her thoughts organized themselves into an agenda for the morning.  Wrapping the bath towel around herself, she charmed her hair dry and into a French braid (oh, how she had missed the benefits of magic for handling such mundane tasks!), and prepared to accomplish the objectives her semi-conscious mind had set for the day.

First, she needed to go to the market; she had a simple shopping list and was pleased to make her first solo grocery expedition.  Then it was back home to put everything away.  She wasn't sure when Severus would return or if he'd had anything to eat so she set the water to boil and began mixing a vinaigrette to make a pasta salad that would be ready for him, whenever he got in.

Between the early morning emotional roller-coaster, the adrenaline of finishing all her preparations, and the nervous energy she spent pacing as she waited for Severus to come back, Hermione was exhausted by the late afternoon.  Peeling off her clothes, she crawled into the guest room bed and dropped into an unrousable sleep.

At least this time when she woke, she thought, the surprise was a much happier one.

The room was filled with the soft purple colors from the last flicker of twilight.  Hermione was on her side, completely nude except for the quilt and a man's arm draped over her waist.  He was curled protectively around her; all her curves were nestled securely against him.

People talked about "spooning" but that didn't even begin to describe how completely he was fitted around her.  For a brief moment, her mind flashed back to a diorama she'd seen during a childhood trip to the Natural History Museum.  The display had been of a prehistoric man wearing a bear skin draped over his back, the bear's head on top of the man's, and the animal's arms wrapped around him.  He had looked completely protected; that was how this felt.  She snuggled her backside against him contentedly.

A tickle first, then a firmer pressure behind her attracted Hermione's attention.  He was beginning to harden in response to the movement of her hips.  His deep and even breathing sounded like that of a sleeping man but given his nature, she didn't doubt for a moment that he might simply be waiting to see what she was going to do next.

Turning slowly in his arms, she held her breath to see if he awoke but he only sighed a little and pulled her closer.  Once he settled back into peaceful silence, she insinuated her right leg between his and set her hand to tracing patterns over his warm flesh.

Severus couldn't be sure if it was the last vestige of a dream or his first awareness upon waking.  Either way, he wished the tickling across his skin would stop or at least move further down.

Groggily, he remembered who was attached to those fingers and just why he was so eager to have them move elsewhere.

He captured the hand that was meandering through the swath of hair that led from his naval, brought it to his lips and gently kissed each finger.

"Hello," a voice murmured against his chest.

"Hello indeed," Severus' words were soft and low; the rumbling of his voice set off reverberations of an entirely non-acoustic nature through Hermione.

She pulled away from him to stretch, cat-like, arching her back and reaching her arm over his ribcage.  Relaxing herself again, she dragged her fingers over his chest, watching the goose bumps rise on his skin in the wake of her fingernails.

Suddenly, she was very interested in exploring the reactions she might get with different touches in various and sundry locations.  Before she could begin her experiments, however, he rose up on one arm and looked down on her.  An eyebrow arched over a coal-black eye and a smile that could only be described as wicked slowly broke over his face.

"I believe I owe you an apology," he began, the fingers of his free hand lazily tracing her hairline down over her ear and along her jaw.  

Hermione actually had to restrain herself from laughing outright.  Severus Snape never apologized unless there was something to be gained by it.  The question was what was his agenda?  She may have been sorted into Gryffindor but she had always been an excellent student; spending the summer with Severus, she had learned to keep her mouth shut and her ears and eyes open until she had all available information.

"I didn't want this to happen," he continued as he let his touch drift over her neck to her shoulder.  

Despite the demon of fear that suddenly rose in her mind ('See, he IS regretting this!' her insecurity screamed), she held fast to her strategy of waiting until he finished what he had to say before she reacted.

"I didn't mean to be gone so long.  Perhaps I can make it up to you somehow?"  Severus' words took a few seconds to penetrate the buzzing panic that droned in her ears but once his comment burned through to her awareness – and his hand slipped over her collarbone – the smile that took over her face beggared his for wickedness.

"Did you know," she responded to his uncharacteristically blunt entendre and let her gaze travel from his lips to his eyes and back again, "that I went to the grocery store while you were gone?"

The apparent non-sequitur had its intended effect as his hand stopped where it was gently molded around her breast.  "No, I didn't," he began.  "Why?  What did you buy?"

Hermione smirked.  Recognizing his expression on her face, Severus decided he was having a very bad influence on her and was appropriately thankful for that.

She then detailed her purchases, punctuated by kisses.  "Sausages," she said as she sat up and tenderly mouthed his collarbone.  "Tomatoes."  She nuzzled the skin at the base of his throat.  "Bacon."  Her tongue stroked his left earlobe.  "Beans."  His right ear was nibbled.  "Eggs." She kissed his lips.  She'd bought an entire larder full of breakfast-worthy ingredients; there would be no need to wake up early in the morning. 

Perhaps she should have been sorted differently, he thought before giving himself up to the sensations her body was awakening in his.

Severus had been resting on his right elbow, but now Hermione pushed him over onto his back as she continued kissing him.  She worked her way from his earlobes which were a favorite, based on his very vocal response, down his chest which generated appreciative moans, across his nipples (quiet sighs – perhaps not his favorite but still good), to his naval where she got more of a response, and finally to the top of his pubis (a sharp intake of breath here).

Scooting down the bed to settle herself more comfortably, Hermione began her dissertation:  "I have decided to engage in a little research project.  Subject: one Severus Snape.  Hmm, given the allotment of time, perhaps I should choose just a section of said subject – for now.  But then, can one really separate a part from such an integrated whole …?"

"Miss Granger," came a growl from further up the mattress, "do you plan on talking your subject to death?"

"Oh no, Professor," she was nearly purring now as she looked at the man laid out before her. "This will definitely be a hands-on examination of the topic."

Hermione took her time, thoroughly cataloguing the areas – in addition to the obvious locations – that seemed to respond to her best, and discovering where Severus preferred a firm or gentle touch.  What she may have lacked in experience she more than made up for in enthusiasm and attention to detail; not a centimeter was left unexplored.  Severus had had to stop her more than once lest her studies come to an abrupt hiatus.

He let her satisfy her curiosity until he couldn't tolerate not touching her any longer.  Reaching for her, Severus brought Hermione's mouth to his and hummed against her lips, "My turn."  Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he sat up and brought her into his lap so that she sat facing him.

Strong, broad hands pushed the hair back off her face.  Severus studied her intently before beginning to softly brush his lips and fingers across her skin, kissing her forehead, cheeks and lips, stroking her arms, shoulders and back, losing himself in the myriad textures he encountered.

Hermione had been throbbing before he began.  She had never realized how arousing it could be to give pleasure but she was nearly growling with need; whether it was need to satisfy Severus or herself was irrelevant, she just craved more.

Scooting closer to him, she pressed herself against his length, earning a groan from him and a shudder from herself.  Severus lifted her so that he could reach more of her skin with his mouth; Hermione took advantage of this and positioned him at her entrance then sank down onto him.

His head rested on her shoulder as they both struggled against the quivering desire to simply pound out their release.  He raised his head slowly, his fine black hair mixing with her unruly curls, and pulled back to look into Hermione's eyes.  Placing his hands at her hips, he slowly lifted her, setting her at a rhythm that was slow, languorous … tender.  

The eyes that had commanded her attention as a student through intimidation now held her fast with their vulnerability.  Hermione could only hope that he was able sense the joy and freedom he released in her.

He could more than sense it, it was written all over her face.  It was powerful and a bit frightening to realize just how deeply they affected each other.  How did he go from being such a private, hidden man to wanting to show her so much of what was in his heart?  This was magic of a completely unexpected kind and he felt powerless to resist it.  Oddly, he didn't seem to mind.

The pressure inside each of them had built again until the slow pace they had taken was no longer enough.  He stopped her movements and told her to lie down across the bed.  He settled onto his knees and stretched her legs up against his chest, entering her slowly.

She wondered if she would ever take for granted the way he felt inside her, as if he were the only solution to an unsolvable equation.  "Complete" wasn't the right word and just as she slipped into the vortex of her release she knew what the feeling was.

Home.


	15. 15 Risk and Reward Profile

Author's Note: Sorry for the rather lengthy delay between chapters 14 and 15; the kids have been home for their three week cycle break and it's tough to get any writing time when they're around {they go back to school tomorrow *does slightly hysterical and very bedraggled happy dance*}.  
  
Just one more chapter – the epilogue – and we'll bid adieu to this little food-centric fluff-fest. I may not have an eating disorder but this story has definitely been a bit on the obsessive side of things. Hope you haven't minded my menus!  
  
___________________________________________________________  
  
Severus Snape woke up to three distinctly pleasant facts.  
  
Fact one: he was in bed, holding Hermione.  
  
Fact two: the wards preventing the use of magic were gone.  
  
Fact three: he had an erection.  
  
Thankful for the second point, Severus cast a charm to prevent the pre-dawn light from brightening the room any further and then employed the other two facts to his – and Hermione's – great satisfaction.  
  
As they prepared breakfast later that morning, Severus finally related what had happened the prior day.  
  
"I woke when you scratched me," he began as he started to grill the sausages. "Or at least I thought it was you. I almost ... well, when I opened my eyes and saw a two foot tall snowy owl perched on my arm, let's just say that I very nearly woke you in a most sudden and uncomfortable manner."  
  
"Hedwig? But how did she get in?" Hermione set the beans in a pot to heat on the hob and began slicing the tomatoes.  
  
Turning the sausages in the grill pan, Severus explained, "Portkey. Albus didn't feel it would be prudent to leave the situation, nor did he wish to let anyone else know what had happened, including you. I guess he decided it would be somehow more beneficial to wake me to the rather startling vision of a large bird of prey a using my arm as a landing post." The expression on his face made it quite clear to Hermione that she was not to laugh at the image this produced in her mind. At least, she was not to laugh where he could see her doing it.  
  
Severus continued with the grilling and his narrative, laying strips of bacon next to the sausages. "The bird had a message and portkey for me. The note explained that there had been an accident, a near fatality, in the Potions classroom. Albus very politely requested that I join him as soon as I could see my way clear."  
  
Hermione interpreted: "In other words, 'Get your arse over here ten minutes ago.'"  
  
"Ah yes, you do speak fluent Dumbledore." As he said this, he removed the cooked sausages to a plate and turned the bacon. (LOL)  
  
"As soon as I grabbed the portkey, I found myself at St. Mungo's with a barely breathing Neville Longbottom. Apparently, he had tried to brew the Draught of the Living Death..." Snape had taken the tomato slices and dropped them into the skillet, frying them expertly.  
  
"Oh no! Neville brewing something as complicated as that... what was he thinking?" Hermione had just finished cracking the eggs and stopped mid- whisk, looking at Severus. The butter that had begun to foam in the hot pan continued to sizzle.  
  
"You need to either take the pan off the heat or add the eggs," the dark- haired man commented before answering her question. "Apparently, he hoped to fool someone into believing he'd committed suicide in my classroom – poetic justice or some such foolishness in his mind."  
  
Hermione sadly shrugged, then poured the eggs into the pan. "So, like his original plan, it was just a hollow threat and more saber rattling, hoping to give you back some of what he thought he'd suffered?"  
  
Snape nodded but remained for several long moments.  
  
"So it would seem. Unfortunately, he miscalculated the amount of asphodel and very nearly brewed a draught of permanent death." Shaking himself into the present, he took the pot of beans off the burner, stirred in a knob of butter and carried it to the table, along with a platter filled with the sausages, bacon and tomatoes.  
  
"So ..." Hermione began, trying to organize the events into some logical order in her mind and failing.  
  
Snape sat down at his now customary spot at the table. "So why would Albus call for me to be there when the young man regained consciousness?" He shrugged and picked up his fork. "I have no idea. Frankly, if someone described this situation to me, I would assume that I should be the very last person to be there. Oddly enough – and damn Albus' wisdom to hell – it appeared to be exactly what Longbottom needed."  
  
Hermione's expression was beyond incredulous.  
  
"I know; it shocked me as well." Severus speared a sausage from the platter and laid it on his plate. "There I was, holding a 20 year old man, patting his shoulder and telling him that everything would be all right."  
  
Hermione was having a difficult time wrapping her mind around that mental picture but she managed to cough out: "You were ... holding ... Neville?"  
  
Severus paused and looked up from his omelet and arched an eyebrow. "You needn't be jealous, it was completely platonic." Hermione nearly choked.  
  
He continued, "I had been standing behind Albus when the medi-witch administered the antidote but when the boy's eyes opened, the first thing he focused on was me. He mumbled something and then began to convulse – or at least that's what I thought. Once I'd realized that he had said "I'm so sorry" and that he was sobbing ..."  
  
The story slowed to a halt as the bane of Neville's existence looked out the window. He seemed at once overwhelmed, confused and vulnerable.  
  
"So you gave him the forgiveness and comfort he needed." Hermione said this simply, without any apparent awareness of how unlikely such a statement would seem when applied to Severus Snape, Greasy Git and Heartless Bastard of Hogwarts (retired).  
  
He looked askance at the young woman sitting at the table with him; surely she was mocking him. But no, her clear and unwavering gaze, not to mention her patent inability to lie about even the most insubstantial thing made it clear that she was not being sarcastic. He wondered at her perception; 'Where did she come from?' he thought.  
  
"So we sat there for what seemed like hours. At first, Longbottom was convinced he was hallucinating. I'm not sure I want to think about this – no, strike that. I'm certain that I don't want to think about it; for the longest while, he kept muttering something about a dress and vulture hat. Finally, he seemed to realize that I was indeed who I said I was and that I forgave him, that I understood."  
  
Hermione took a few moments to compose herself before recapping all Severus had told her. Once she was relatively confident that she could speak without either giggling at the memory of Neville's Boggart Snape or crying at the reality of a gentle and nurturing Severus, she summed up what she understood: "Neville managed to gather up a rather unsavory group, trying to intimidate you with threats against your life that weren't to be actually carried out, hoping you would feel some of the fear he'd felt during your classes. When you didn't react to these threats in the way he'd hope but instead disappeared – hiding here – he then went for the grand gesture of appearing to commit suicide in the very classroom that he viewed as having been his personal torture chamber. Unfortunately, Neville's track record of failure in brewing potions stands unblemished as the potion he meant to use simply to make you look bad backfired and nearly killed him. Once he came to, he realized that what he'd been doing was no better than and was actually even more mean-spirited than how you'd treated him during his Hogwarts days, he broke down, crying like a baby and after a bit of time and possibly some Muggle-style counseling, is probably going to be all right. Is that about it?"  
  
Severus was still looking at her as if she were a mystery. In many ways, she was. "Yes, that's about it."  
  
"Good for you," Hermione said definitively.  
  
"Excuse me?" He was more interested in what she meant than he was in eating the omelet that would be inedibly cold in just a few more minutes.  
  
"I said good for you. You know that I'm not keen on your teaching methods but your points about safety and scores were dead on. It's not that I expect any students would ever thank you for being so strict, but you were very effective. You were even more effective when you changed your tactics with Neville yesterday. That was brilliant."  
  
Severus looked at Hermione. The now early afternoon sunlight that streamed in through the window wasn't particularly flattering to her – there was at least one nascent pimple on her chin and he could still see the whisper of a wrinkle across her cheek from where the bed linens had been caught between her face and his chest – but he found her to be luminous and beautiful nonetheless.  
  
His voice was so gentle that he nearly didn't recognize it himself as he told her, "I couldn't have been 'brilliant' if you hadn't taught me."  
  
Now it was Hermione's turn to be suspicious. "What do you mean?" She was barely able to finish the sentence as she braced in anticipation of his sarcastic reply.  
  
"You showed me that there are other, equally successful ways of teaching, beyond the cruel taskmaster persona I've always maintained. Between your psycho-silly textbooks and the way you've helped me navigate the Muggle world – from the internet to the grocery store – you have been patient, considerate and gentle. And you have trusted me. No one has ever trusted me, Hermione, not without having something to hold over my head. No one." Snape's voice caught and he tore his gaze away from her, choosing to stare out the window to the back garden.  
  
After a few moments, he said softly, "How could I not be tolerant with Neville after all you've be so patient with me?"  
  
There was no sound other than their heartbeats for the longest time. At some point, the tension became overwhelming; Hermione's chair scraped loudly across the floor as she left her seat and moved to his lap, to hold this brilliant, difficult, vulnerable man.  
  
Between the stifling warmth of the summer day and the full brunch they'd enjoyed that morning, there was little desire for food or even any particularly strenuous activity until very late in the day. Instead, they spent the hours quietly, lounging together on the living room sofa and reading.  
  
Hermione's stomach finally began growling just as the day's heat seemed to cause the light to melt away, leaving behind a gloriously sunburned sky. Rather than break the languorous mood they were in by cooking, they decided to head out to a nearby bistro for supper.  
  
"So what are you planning to do?"  
  
Hermione's question was surprising only in that it had taken her so long to finally ask it. Her hand shook slightly as she brought a morsel of baby romaine to her lips.  
  
"Do you mean in terms of a career, living arrangements, Longbottom, or us?" Severus casually swirled the pinot grigio in his glass. His tone was as light as the wine but there was a noticeable emphasis on the last word.  
  
"All of it, I guess but ... well – " Steeling herself with the never-ending need to know that frequently masqueraded as bravery, Hermione blurted out, "that last bit mostly. I mean, do you – are we – would ..."  
  
Severus chuckled at her nervousness not only because it mirrored his own but because he knew that if she hadn't wanted to continue seeing him she wouldn't be flustered. The conversation paused as the server brought their entrée of scallops in a pesto sauce, beetroot pasta and grilled vegetables. Herb infused steam curled sensuously from the platter, the undulations at once soothing and arousing.  
  
"I think I would very much like to explore the possibilities." His gaze was now more intense. "I would like to see how ... things progress."  
  
Hermione was beginning to feel a little light-headed, though whether it was from nerves, from holding her breath or from the wine was hard to tell.  
  
Forcing herself to concentrate, she asked, "'Things?'"  
  
Severus said, "Yes, 'things' as in things between us. That is, if you're interested in continuing to see each other?" He busied himself by serving the seafood.  
  
Her relief was immediate. "Oh, those kinds of 'things.'" She had the grace to look somewhat abashed at the poorly feigned confusion she'd affected hoping to get at least a hint of Severus' feelings before having to confess her own. "I would very much like to explore that as well."  
  
"What are your plans?" Severus countered. "You're not finished with university; did you have a Muggle career in mind?"  
  
Hermione snorted as she took a bite of a pesto covered scallop. "Hardly. The courses I took were based almost solely on my curiosity; I really had no intention of pursuing a formal degree. I wasn't ready to make any kind of major life decisions two years ago; enrolling in university seemed the safest way to give myself some time to figure out what I wanted to do."  
  
"And have you decided what you wish to do?" Snape's voice edged back toward the professorial. Annoyed with himself for hiding behind a façade that was ill-suited to the discussion of romantic prospects, he cleared his throat and took a healthy swallow of wine.  
  
Hermione pretended to be fascinated with her fork. "I don't really know," she admitted. "Frankly, I would love to work in an area that somehow synthesizes the Muggle and magical worlds, but there hasn't exactly been overwhelming demand for anything like that."  
  
Severus agreed. "Unless it's art, wine or food, the magical community really doesn't seem to have much appreciation for things Muggle."  
  
She nodded then stopped mid-movement as Severus' words echoed in her head. He noticed her sudden stillness and caught the gleam in her eye. Her face wore the same expression of delighted discovery as when she'd successfully flipped her first omelet. He realized in that moment what had caught her attention. They looked at each other and began to laugh.  
  
"So how do you think you might capitalize on this little epiphany of yours?" Snape refreshed her wine first then drained the remainder of the bottle into his own glass.  
  
"I'll have to do some research first, find out what's available and what might be of interest to folks but I know how much I've enjoyed learning to cook and cooking classes are incredibly popular with Muggles. I suppose I could try teaching, but..." Hermione tried to look shy and demure but she was far too excited to be very convincing.  
  
"But you'd want an, ahem, 'experienced educator' to work with you?" Snape conjectured for her. "And why do you think the Wizarding world would be interested in learning to cook? After all, what with house elves and wands, there's not a great need for dirtying one's own hands." Even though he played devil's advocate, his enthusiasm for the subject was apparent.  
  
"Good point," Hermione allowed. "Perhaps if the subject matter were broader, explaining more about ingredients, menus, wine pairings and the like, it might appeal to a bigger audience. What do you think?"  
  
"I think that's a good start. Most of the cooking spellbooks don't really emphasize or even explain anything about the history behind a recipe or how to select the best ingredients." Severus' interest was clearly piqued.  
  
By the time they had finished their entrée and begun on the raspberry sorbet, they had woven the naturally variegating conversational thread into a cloth that included recipes, location, class participation vs. lecturing, and countless other details that sprang to their minds. Through all this talk, they never specifically addressed their relationship but the discussion clearly assumed that they would be together.  
  
After their brainstorm had exhausted itself, Severus sobered and made a comment about the improbability of paying for such an endeavor. Hermione snorted as she finished her wine (a painful combination of activities she discovered) and pointed out that she could easily afford to support her fantasy.  
  
After an awkward moment when Severus mistakenly thought Hermione was offering to "keep" Severus, they embarked on a quick but thorough financial disclosure.  
  
As venerable as the Snape name might have been in terms of being pure and old, it was nearly worthless in its monetary value. Severus had inherited a sizable debt thanks to his father's drinking but he had been able to discharge the obligations by selling the family properties including his ancestral home and adjoining land, nearly all the furnishings, jewelry and art, along with sacrificing a major portion of his salary for the first few years he taught at Hogwarts.  
  
It seemed he'd spent his entire life scrimping and saving. As a child, he'd had to squirrel away whatever pocket money he'd been able to beg – or as was more likely, find – from home or from the cushions of the Slytherin Common Room's sofas to pay for his school supplies. Before he'd left Hogwarts, both of his parents were dead. He chose to omit the circumstances of their passing in his narrative to Hermione, but he had felt duty-bound to make good on the promises that had been made to their various creditors and benefactors.  
  
Thanks to his nearly life-long habit of thrift, he'd saved virtually every penny since the time he had finally discharged the final lien against his name. While he wasn't what most would call wealthy, he had enough deposited at Gringott's to provide him sufficient means to support his fairly Spartan lifestyle for a good many years. If he was willing to risk having to go back to work sooner rather than later, he could even afford to make a rather speculative investment in a new venture.  
  
After his disclosure, Hermione was a little uncomfortable sharing information about her family's fortunes. Fortunately, Snape was more than just an admirer of Hermione and her Arts and Crafts furnishings; he was also an astute judge of circumstances. While Hermione stammered for a few moments, he took the opportunity to guess with frightening accuracy about her fiscal situation. Her silence and increasingly surprised expression confirmed the precision of his assessment.  
  
She had, he assumed, inherited a rather valuable home owned free and clear of any liens. Given the professional occupation of her parents, it was virtually a certainty that they had been able to set aside a comfortable sum for their retirement and would likely have employed a financial advisor to ensure an optimal portfolio mix for their future plans. The Grangers hadn't been quite old enough to have considered even early retirement when they were attacked by the Dark Lord's minions, so they would have likely had an investment profile weighted slightly more toward principal growth with a smaller portion designed to generate steady income. The bottom line, tactless though it may sound, was that Miss Hermione Granger would likely never have to work a day in her life. For those slackers in the world, the irony would be that Miss Hermione Granger would never consider NOT working.  
  
Given that they were each ready, willing and able to allocate a sizable investment to this project – an investment that included not only their respective financial wherewithal but also their time and combined talents – there was no question that they were ideally suited for launching such a venture.  
  
__________________________________________________________________  
  
Author's Footnotes: Gosh, I haven't given out any cooking links in a chapter or two so let me redress that. A lovely description of the full English breakfast (or "fry- up") is here – www . mycookbook . co . uk / article . php ? sid = 70. {remove the spaces to get the correct web address}  
  
And here's a link to the inspiration behind Hermione and Severus' supper – www . foodiesite . com / recipes / 2002 – 09 / scallopherb . jsp. {remove the spaces to get the correct web address}  
  
Regarding Hermione's "fortune," as of 3/29/04, the going rate for a nice three bedroom home in the Home Counties would go for somewhere between 250,000 to 400,000 pounds sterling or 450,000 to 700,000 US dollars. Not a bad nest egg, and that's before you consider any investments or retirement funds her parents would have likely set aside. 


	16. 16 Epilogue Dessert, Anyone?

Hermione sighed; this was NOT going to be easy.  
  
She'd already put off telling him, knowing that this would likely be the last thing he expected – or wanted – to hear.  
  
Screwing up her courage and heaving one last sigh, she went to find Severus.  
  
________________  
  
He was in the kitchen, dicing onions to complete the mise-en-place needed for the day's class and the private party booked tonight.  
  
Hermione stopped in the doorway and watched him, his face a Zen-like composition of equal parts concentration and relaxation. His hands were deft and graceful as he efficiently transformed the onions from a bunch of irregular globes to piles of perfectly even cubes.  
  
She waited until he had chased the last bit of onion off the maple cutting board and deposited it with its mates in the stainless steel container before calling for his attention.  
  
"Severus?"  
  
He didn't stop his actions, moving to the sink to wash the knife and clean the board, just as he had done a thousand times before. "Hmm?" The response seemed incongruously casual in light of what was about to be said.  
  
"I think we need to talk." Hermione struggled to keep her voice from cracking. She was nearly successful. It was that last word that did her in and it caught his attention.  
  
________________  
  
The rather snarky comment he'd considered lobbing back at her died in the back of his throat when he heard the tremor in her voice. For some reason, he looked at the clock – class was due to begin in less than an hour, he thought idly – then he put down the knife, shut off the water and turned toward her.  
  
________________  
  
It was all Hermione could do to hold back her tears as she watched him school his face into careful yet deliberate indifference. She swore she could actually see him gathering his courage and pride, preparing for the devastating news she was obviously about to deliver. Her already shattered heart broke into even tinier pieces.  
  
Right, she thought, out with it; it's not going to get any easier if I drag this out.  
  
________________  
  
Severus' mind was reeling with the knowledge that she was finally ready to move on with her life. Without him.  
  
Frankly, he'd been expecting it since their first night together. A young, brilliant, beautiful woman like her – whatever had she been thinking, staying with him this long?  
  
They'd been together for four years now and Severus had spent almost every one of those 1467 days expecting that, at any moment, Hermione would tell him goodbye. He'd never said a word about it to Hermione, knowing she'd wrap indignation and false certainty around her like a straitjacket and – just as all the permanent residents of St. Mungo's did – insist that he was the crazy one. And now the time had finally come. He was rather disheartened to realize that, in this case anyway, being right carried no pleasure at all.  
  
________________  
  
The silence between them stretched as Hermione struggled to maintain her composure. There was no way she could look at him now, knowing what was to come, so she looked around the kitchen she had come to love.  
  
________________  
  
Over three years ago they had wandered through the residential section of Hogsmeade and came upon an odd little house that didn't seem to fit in with its neighbors. It wasn't noticeably different from the other cottages in its architecture but both of them had remarked that it seemed somehow out of place. A small placard – barely noticeable in the window nearest the door – stated that it was available to let. They made a few enquiries and struck an arrangement to buy it.  
  
Selling her childhood home had been easier than she'd expected and, combined with Severus' savings (he had insisted that they be equal financial partners in this venture), they'd had no difficulties negotiating the acquisition of what they considered would be their home and their future.  
  
Hermione had sold nearly all the furnishings in her house, keeping only the guest suite to serve as their bedroom furniture, the glass-fronted bookshelf from the living room, and the kitchen table and chairs.  
  
In a matter of a few weeks, they had not only completed the sale of Hermione's house and closed the purchase of the Hogsmeade building, but they had also converted the small upstairs rooms into their living quarters and re-fitted the downstairs into space that would accommodate their burgeoning business.  
  
________________  
  
The success of their catering business and cooking classes had been greater than the couple had anticipated. Not all wizarding families had had house- elves to handle household chores, so they had expected a reasonable amount of interest in their services. The unexpected boost to their business, ironically, was due to Voldemort.  
  
The war had taken a significant toll not only on the wizarding population but also on Gringott's' accounts. The economic laws governing supply and demand and the resulting impact on prices were just as iron-clad in the magical world as in the Muggle universe. As resources such as wands, potions ingredients, and skilled teachers of hexes and charms were allocated more and more to the war, their costs skyrocketed. Fortunately, the need to procure, process or deliver these items meant that there was more work to be had and at better wages. Magical folk, whether witch, wizard or the occasional liberated house-elf, were able to find lucrative employment in numbers that hadn't been seen since the Grindelwald days.  
  
As wonderful as that may have been for the local economy, it played havoc on the traditional magical home life. There was neither time nor energy (nor, truth be told, desire) to engage in any foraging, shopping or superfluous wand-waving when the tired witches and wizards returned home at the end of the day. The increased affluence of the population, along with the continuing post-war celebratory mood, also meant that entertaining was more popular than ever. Hermione and Severus capitalized on the opportunity to provide catering to this newly employed and increasingly sociable clientele.  
  
Within the first six months of beginning to sell prepared meals for individuals and families and offering special event catering, they began to get requests for instruction on how to prepare many of the more popular dishes. The requests quickly became demands.  
  
Given the traditional reluctance for wizards to abandon the old ways – they were still writing with quill and parchment, after all – the request for cooking classes came as a surprise to the couple. As best as they could tell, this interest arose as a way for the magical folk to demonstrate their anti-Voldemortian acceptance of things Muggle without actually endangering their time-honored lifestyles. Hermione had the distinct joy of explaining to Severus that this was a "win-win" situation. She then had the difficulty of explaining what a "win-win" situation meant.  
  
After a brief but intense debate over division of labor, it was agreed that Severus would concentrate on the catering side of the business and Hermione would focus on the classes. The intensity of the discussion had little to do with who was going to do what. It would have taken nothing short of a "do-this-or-I-leave" ultimatum from Hermione to get Severus to teach another class, even if it was to adults who willingly chose to take the classes in question and Hermione still broke out in hives whenever she had to cook a meal for anyone other than Severus. The heat in the argument had everything to do with making sure the other party didn't feel taken for granted. The dispute came to an abrupt halt when Hermione cried, "...but what if you wind up resenting me because you never get to teach these dunderheads?"  
  
It had taken a good 15 minutes before they'd been able to stop laughing.  
  
________________  
  
And so it had gone for most of the past two years – Hermione taught classes twice a month, covering various topics from how to select the best ingredients and dealing with Muggle vendors to her most popular class, "Seduction through Dining." Severus handled all of the contracted catering except for the most complex events. They worked together to cook the ready- to-eat meals that were sold on Mondays and Fridays. It had been perfect.  
  
Now it was over.  
  
________________  
  
Severus knew he was being perverse. He could let Hermione off the hook and simply tell her he was leaving, giving her an out and saving his pride but his inner git demanded that he remain silent, forcing her to actually say the words.  
  
________________  
  
Hermione suspected he knew what was coming; surely it couldn't be a surprise. Knowing him as she did, she also guessed that he wasn't going to make it any easier on her. She let go of one final sigh and said the words she knew would change their lives forever:  
  
"I'm pregnant."  
  
________________  
  
This was not how she'd planned to give him the news. She'd spent hours working out her speech, beginning with an annotated treatise on how their own relationship had been such a pleasant surprise, in direct opposition to their expectations. Her carefully constructed argument would have led inexorably to the conclusion that This Could Be A Wonderful Turn Of Events Despite the Fact that You Hate Children.  
  
She had even considered referencing the 0.0437% failure rate of wizarding contraceptive methods, lest he think she might have been trying to trap him into a permanent commitment but she ultimately decided to leave that fact out. It would be too distracting as they would likely both want to triple- check those calculations and review the past 2 months' calendars of intimacies to prove everything out.  
  
________________  
  
Severus was silent.  
  
No, Severus was stunned. Paralyzed would have been an appropriate term; catatonic, even. Shocked and awed beyond anything he could have imagined.  
  
He'd been so sure he'd known what was coming but Hermione's words were as far from what he'd anticipated as ... well ... he couldn't even imagine a scenario as far-fetched as what she had just revealed.  
  
________________  
  
It was probably the most inappropriate response he could give but he couldn't help himself. Severus Snape began to laugh. Not a snicker or a mean-spirited smirk, but a full-on, side splitting guffaw, tears included at no extra charge.  
  
She assumed Severus was having a hysterical reaction and stepped forward to slap him into coherence. Just as she raised her hand to deliver the sanity- inducing blow, he grabbed her into his arms and, still gasping for breath, said the very last thing she could have expected:  
  
"Oh, thank God; I thought it was something bad."  
  
________________  
  
After a great many questions, it was finally clarified that Hermione was really and truly with child, Severus wasn't going to run screaming away from her, Hermione hadn't been planning to send Severus away, and marriage was not only appropriate but actually desired by both parties.  
  
________________  
  
Realizing that tonight's students were scheduled to arrive soon, Severus kissed his soon-to-be wife and as was his custom, retreated to their rooms until the class was over. "Retreated" this night meant taking the stairs three at a time, a lopsided grin plastered firmly on his face.  
  
________________  
  
The last student had rounded the corner leading back toward town and Hermione had cast "scourgify" to get the last bits of spilled béchamel off the counter. Her back was to the stairs and even though he strongly suspected she knew he was there, Severus couldn't resist the temptation to creep up on her from behind. He put his hands on her hips and pulled her back against him once he was sure she wasn't going to jump and either misfire her last cleaning spell or crack his jaw. He'd learned from painful experience to take that precaution with her.  
  
Hermione turned to face him, relieved that he didn't appear to have changed his mind about their situation. His eyes were warm as she smiled shyly up at him. "You're still here!" She laughed a little as she said the words, though whether it was because she was teasing him or because she was surprised at the reality he couldn't tell.  
  
"And here I'd thought you'd finally given up stating the obvious, Miss Granger. In fact, I was rather hoping you'd give up talking completely. At least for the next few moments..." and with that, Snape ran his fingers lightly along her jaw line, tipping her face up toward his and softly brushed his lips against hers.  
  
________________  
  
They made their way slowly upstairs. They stopped frequently to kiss, to touch, to reassure themselves that there was no penny waiting to drop, no chance that they'd misunderstood the other's meaning.  
  
________________  
  
As soon as Hermione whispered, "Nox," Severus was decided. Despite the realization that this was not going to make for an engagement story they could share with friends or family, he knew it was right. He gently pushed Hermione to her back and kissed her deeply. His hands were stroking her and he found her to be even more ready for their joining than he was, as impossible as that seemed.  
  
He pushed his hardened length into her slowly and then paused, holding his weight off her with his forearms but letting his body cover hers and let his voice fall to its lowest notes, finally giving voice to his deepest hope.  
  
"Hermione, will you marry me?"  
  
________________  
  
Hermione stretched luxuriously under the covers as the early morning light. A soft chuckle rumbled next to her.  
  
"You remind me of a cat every time you do that." Severus' voice was just- woken deep but she could hear his grin. She opened her eyes and smiled lazily up at the man who was watching her.  
  
"You're still here," she whispered, as she scritched her fingers over the stubble on his cheek.  
  
"Back to the obvious, are we?" His voice rumbled softly through her. He let his hand tickle a path from her ear down her throat, aiming for her breast when two projectiles hurtled through the door.  
  
Even after the passing of years, Snape's reflexes were lightening-fast; he shielded Hermione with his body and with one hand, caught the first missile as it grazed over the top of their bed.  
  
"Ian, that's NOT FAIR!" A voice redolent with righteous indignation shouted from somewhere near the foot of the bed. "Your hiney is miney!"  
  
The bullet that Snape caught – the one named Ian – peered up to see a fearsome gaze from the powerful wizard who'd caught him in mid-flight. As usual, the glare had absolutely no effect and the non-stop chatter began.  
  
"G'morning Da! Morning Mum! Love you. Didja sleep well? We've already been up. Me 'n Ryan's been playing tag. Can we have peas porridge for breakfast? What is peas porridge anyway? We've learnt that song, you know, 'Peas porridge hot, peas porridge cold, peas porridge in the pot nine days old. Some like it hot – '"  
  
"And some like it QUIET!" Severus' voice boomed. The fact that he could feel Hermione's body shaking with barely suppressed laughter did nothing to fortify the glower he was trying to fix on the boy.  
  
Before he could launch into his now daily speech that included the phrase: 'you need to settle down and be more gentle around your mother,' the four year old boy wrapped sticky fingers around Snape's neck and gave a wet kiss to his father's prominent nose. Severus tried hard not to consider what might be the source of the messy hands and Ian clambered off the bed, ostensibly to find his older brother who had wisely made himself scarce during Ian's distracting prattle.  
  
"'Your hiney is miney?' Where on Earth do they get these sayings?" Snape grumbled but there was no fire in it. He leaned over his wife's belly, hard and round in her eighth month with their third child. As he kissed it and said to Hermione's navel, "You, young lady, shall never utter such inanities."  
  
Hermione's giggles returned at that comment. "Good luck, love. Even if she is paying attention in there, given her parents' personalities, I'm certain she's already made up her own mind on how she's going to be."  
  
Snape considered Hermione's words. She was probably right. And nothing could make him happier.  
  
________________  
  
Author's Notes:  
  
"Mise-en-place" – (French, literally "everything in its place") A culinary term referring to having all necessary ingredients and equipment prepared and arranged before beginning to cook.  
  
And lest you worry that my final chapter would not include any culinary links, here's a recipe for béchamel, a wonderfully useful white sauce found in everything from soufflés to fettuccine al fredo: http : // www . foodnetwork . com / food / recipes / recipe / 0 ,, FOOD _ 9936 _ 3522 , 00 . html {remove the spaces for the link}  
  
As an additional note, I've been reading Jacques Pepin's autobiography, "The Apprentice: My Life in the Kitchen" and I HIGHLY recommend it. Not only is he an amazing chef but he's an amazingly good storyteller as well. If you're more interested in recipes without a family background, try "Julia and Jacques: Cooking at Home" – two great educational chefs (Julia Child and Jacques Pepin) give their individual takes on hundreds of classic recipes.  
  
The "Your hiney is miney" line is thanks to, in honor of, and in response to a challenge from the Immaculate Grey Lady who, incidentally, had a really crappy weekend. I hope this gives back at least part of her million- dollar smile. I also hope she gets back to work on "Mephistopheles" and "Disturbances." The former, because I worry that I'm failing her as a beta; the latter, because I miss Weasel!!!! 


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